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[ 

I 


MISS N. CLEONA FLOWERS 

(from a photo by bell.) 


^ntl 0)j a 


..A NOVEL.. 


/ 

B. Cleona |^lower8 

A-utlnor of “Mrs. Earle’s Trip to Saratoga,’’ “A. Bliad Maa’s Bride,** 




Washington, D. C. 

Hartman & Cadick, Printers. 

1896. 






Copyright, 1896, by Hartman & Cadick, Printers, 
Washington, D. C. 


DEDICATION 


JO MY AUNT, MRS. LEDONIA CASH, WHO BY HER CHEERFUL 
WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT, AND UNFLAGGING FAITH IN 
MY ABILITY, SO MATERIALLY ASSISTED ME IN THE WRITING OF 
THIS BOOK, DO I LOVINGLY DEDICATE IT. 


N. CLEONA FLOWERS. 



CHAPTER I. 


THE FIRST SNARL. 

^^GLYMONT,^’ the ancestral home of the Sinclairs, 
was a grand old estate situated just outside the sub- 
urban limits of the beautiful city which has the distinc- 
tion of being a Nation’s Capital, the pride of its people 
and the home of their Presidents. 

When the fine estate passed into the hands of its 
present owner, James Sinclair, people shook their 
heads solemnly and declared that it would be only a 
short time until the place would go to ^Yack and 
ruin;” but in this his friends were destined to be dis- 
appointed. As a young man he had been a reckless, 
dare-devil sort of fellow, who was at once the dread 
and admiration of his people; but thirty years had 
made a wonderful change in the daring young fellow, 
and when, at the age of fifty, he succeeded his father 
as master of ^^Glymont,” his quiet demeanor, polished 
manners, and genial nature won anew the respect of his 
boyhood friends. 

Wife and daughter had passed into the silent ^‘Be- 
yond,” and the only person left to share his good for- 
tune was his granddaughter. Marguerite Courtney, a 
winsome little creature, who fiitted about the solemn 
old house like some dainty little fairy, making the 
walls ring with her merry laughter and childish songs. 

Little Margie, as she was called, was the idol of the 
old man’s heart. He would sit for hours with his eyes 
fixed upon her as she chased the butterflies over the 
lawn or played hide-and-seek among the flowers with 
her white kitten. 

But in spite of his great love for the child there was 
a look of vague unrest in his blue eyes, an unquench- 


8 


able longing in his heart for the freedom of the old 
wandering life, and one bright morning Peter and 
Becky, the two faithful old darkies who had served 
the Sinclairs since the daj^s of slavery, were startled 
by the announcement that their master was soon to 
take his departure for foreign lands, to be gone for an 
indefinite length of time. When Becky timidly in- 
quired after pretty little Miss Margie, Mr. Sinclair in- 
formed her that the child was to be placed in Mis.> 
Stockton’s boarding-school to remain until his return. 
Before Becky’s mind there floated awful visions of 
young girls dying from eating slate-pencils, or going 
mad from reading novels, and she sighed heavily as she 
brushed a tear from her eye and silently prayed that 
this might not be Miss Margie’s fate, while she meek- 
ly begged that the child be left with her. But Miss 
Marguerite would one day be a great heiress, her mas- 
ter told her, and as she was now ten years of age it was 
time her education was being looked after. 

Two weeks later old Peter, watching the carriage 
until it was lost to sight in the distance, remarked to 
his wife: ‘^’Pears lak de sunshine ain’t so bright as it 
used to be.” 

Ten years went by without neAvs from the master. 
Old Peter’s hair Avas snowy Avliite, and Aunt Becky 
often declared that ‘‘Somehow she didn’t feel so young 
as she did when Marse James AA^ent aAvay.” In spite 
of the absence of the master, ^^Glyniont” Avas looking 
its best; the laAvii Avas carefull}^ nioAved, and looked 
like a vast velvet carpet of emerald green, dotted here 
and there b}^ blooming roses and spotless lilies, AAdth 
now and then a bed of scarlet geraniums or fragrant 
heliotrope, and those aaJio had predicted that the place 
would ^‘go to rack and ruin” Avere forced to admit that 
it had been well cared for in all these years. 

It Avas the morning of a bright June day Avhen old 
Peter, just rising from his breakfast, was startled by 
a loud ring of the front door bell. Such a sound had 
not awoke the echoes of the old house for ten years. 
What could it mean? 

Unlocking seAwal doors, the butler hastened to 


9 


answer the summons. His eyes having grown accus- 
tomed to the darkened halls, Peter did not at first rec- 
ognize his visitor. 

“Well, Peter, I suppose you have forgotten my face 
in ten years, and after all your eyesight can’t be as 
good as it used to be. I am Mr. Deswald, the Sinclair 
solicitor.” 

“Yes, sir; yes, sir; I know you,” responded Peter, 
throwing wide the door. “I hope I sees you well. 
Come in, sir; come in.” 

“No, thank you, Peter. I only stopped by to tell you 
that Mr. Sinclair expects to be home by the middle of 
next week, and he requested me to say that he would 
like you to have everything ready for the reception of 
himself and two ladies.” 

“Dat I wdll,” said Peter, joyfully. 

“I dare say he has finished sowing his wild oats and 
is coming home to stay,” continued the lawyer, shaking 
the old darky’s hand. 

“Bress de Law^l,” murmured Peter as he retraced 
his steps through the darkened hall to impart the wel- 
come news to Becky, who was clearing away the break- 
fast dishes. “I’se gwine to see my ole Marse and sweet 
little Miss Margie once more.” 

From that hour the two old servants were in a state 
of wildest excitement, and despite their burden of 
years and rheumatic joints, bustled around from morn- 
ing till night, and at the end of the week the old house 
that had presented such a gloomy appearance was 
transformed from a darkened castle to an enchanted 
palace. 

Becky only hoped that “old Marse hadn’t gone an’ 
brought one of them furrin Wourippeens’ to queen it 
over IMiss Margie.” She felt sure that Mr. Sinclair 
was bringing home a new wife. 

In this, however, she was mistaken. The second 
lady referred to in the letter was no other than Miss 
Stockton, Marguerite’s friend and teacher, who would 
chaperone her pupil until vacation was over and she 
must once more take charge of her school. Just how. 


10 


'vi^ell Miss Stockton would have liked to become step- 
grandmother to Marguerite remained for time to tell. 

The first few weeks after the home-coming Mr. Sin- 
clair preferred to spend quietly in order to recuperate 
from his long journey and years of travel abroad. 
There would be time enough for Marguerite to enter 
society when Winter came and Washington was at its 
best. Afternoon teas or informal dinners, to which a 
few’ of Mr. Sinclair’s old friends were invited, were 
about the only social gatherings at ‘‘Glymont” during 
the Summer of their return. Having been raised in an 
atmosphere perfectly free from ostentation Marguerite 
enjoyed this simple home life as only a pure-minded, 
loving creature can, and when Winter came and life at 
the National Capital, wdth all its social gayety, was at 
its zenith, and Miss Courtney, the granddaughter and 
heiress of Mr. James Sinclair, made her dehut, every one 
went into raptures over her beauty and grace. Society 
whispered that James Sinclair was worth a million if 
he was worth a dollar, and forthwith Miss Courtney 
became the rage. 

Though not yet what the world calls an old man, Mr. 
Sinclair had long since grown too feeble to attend 
these social functions. 

To theatres, balls, and parties the dehutante was ac- 
companied by Mr. Desw’ald, who watched over her as 
her own father might have done. No one ever thought 
of inviting Miss Courtney without also inviting the 
gifted law^yer, and at last society had it that Mr. Des- 
wald was paying court to the young heiress. 

^‘Let them have it so,” said Mr. Sinclair. ‘Jf the 
child chooses to bestow^ her heart upon Herbert Des- 
wald she shall have my blessing and my gold as her 
w^edding dower.” 

Herbert Desw’ald only smiled. What w’as a hidden 
book to the world at large had long been an open secret 
to him. Already the fair young fiower was unfolding 
its pure petals under the magic influence of the sun- 
shine of love, and what matter if the hero of her maiden 
dreams were only a poor man, he had before him the 
boundless opportunities of ambition and youth, and 
young hearts could wait. 


11 


Jack Dumbarton would not be the first young man 
Avho had made his mark in the world and mounted the 
ladder of fame under the guidance of Herbert Des- 
wald. 

The first month of Winter flew by and Christmas 
came bringing the first snow of the season. Over the 
smoothly-paved streets of Washington sleighs were 
dashing merrily, filling the air with the musical jingle 
of a thousand bells. It was the night of the grand 
Christmas ball to be given at the British Embassy. 
Marguerite, resplendent in a robe of pale blue satin, 
embroidered in seed pearls and trimmed in misty lace, 
stood gazing out upon the whitened landscape. Her 
blue eyes had Avandered to the grand old Potomac, 
Avhich Avound like a silver ribbon between the fields of 
snoAV, and over it all the pale moonlight glimmered 
like an opalescent flame. Hoav fair the world is to- 
night! 

The musical chime of bells floats to her across the 
snow, and fiA^e minutes later, snugly wrapped in an er- 
mine cloak, with the warm robes tucked closely around 
her and Jack Dumbarton at her side, she is speeding 
aAvay in the direction of the city, Avith the frosty 
breezes bloAving in her face and the holy light of love 
shining in her eyes. 

Just hoAV it happened Marguerite never could tell, 
but before the Embassy was reached Jack had told his 
loA^e, asked her to be his aa ife, and she had promised 
to consider his proposal and referred him to grand- 
father. Hoav light her heart aa as and how soon to be 
clouded! 

The first Avaltz Avas just over and Marguerite leaning 
on the arm of her lover had started to the conservatory 
AAdien her hostess, Lady Brankstone, came up. 

^^Pardon me, Miss Courtney; a messenger has just 
called to say that Mr. Sinclair is ill, and desires you to 
come home at once. Permit me to say I hope there is 
nothing serious. The messenger also requests that Mr. 
Dumbarton call by for a physician.” 

Marguerite turned deathly white, and Jack had to 
support her as she walked to the cloak room, where he 
left her Avith Lady Brankstone until he could order the 


12 


sleigh. As he was desceudiiig the stairs he was ap- 
proached by a geutlemau, evidently one of the guests. 

‘‘Pardon me, sir,^’ he said, handing his card to Jack. 
“I chanced to hear the message sent to Miss Courtney 
a few moments since, and wish to say if I can render 
professional service to Mr. Sinclair I shall be happy to 
do so. It may be that the case is an urgent one.’’ 

Jack glanced at the piece of pasteboard and read: 

“Jeremiah Merlebank, ^I. D., 

“Leicester, England.” 

“Thank you,” replied Jack. “I am Jack Dumbarton, 
Dr. Merlebank, and shall be infinitely obliged if you 
will accompany me to ‘Glymont’ at once. As you say, 
the case may be urgent.” 

Upon examination it proved that Mr. Sinclair had 
suffered a very severe stroke of paralysis, and would 
require the most careful attention from the physician. 
Jack suggested that Marguerite have a room prepared 
for the Doctor, and after a good deal of persuasion and 
promise of ample compensation Dr. Merlebank agreed 
to remain. 

“My only objection,” said the Doctor, “is on account 
of my daughter, who is a very delicate young lady, and 
very much opposed to living at an hotel.” 

“Bring her here. Doctor,” muttered the old man, his 
voice scarcely audible, and as Marguerite left the room 
to make arrangements for her immediate reception 
the old man continued: 

“Anything, Doctor; do anything that will prolong 
my life until I can make my will. Should I die before 
I can do that she will be i)enuiless, and the grand old 
estate which is hers by lawful right will pass into the 
hands of a worthless vagabond, a mere offshoot of the 
Sinclair race, and not worthy to be called by the 
name.” 

After giving his promise to remain until his patient 
was better, the Doctor administered an opiate and Mr. 
Sinclair was soon asleep. 

The following morning Jack returned to the city to 
summon Mr. Deswald, the lawyer, who was to draw 
up the will. 


13 


Stopping by his hotel for any letters that might have 
come during his absence, he found a telegram awaiting 
him. 

Hastily tearing it open he read : 

“Come at once, your mother is dying.’^ 

He rushed down to the office and glanced over the 
time-table. The next train going West did not leave 
for two hours. There would yet be time to go with 
Mr. Deswald, see Marguerite, and say good-bye. There 
was no time to be spent in lovers^ chats, and as Jack 
bent over the fair little hand he whispered softly : 

“Just a word of comfort and hope to take with me, 
Margie.’’ 

“Ask me over again three months from to-day. Jack 
— Mr. Dumbarton,” said Marguerite in crimson con- 
fusion, and the next moment Jack had pressed a kiss 
on the soft white hand and was riding away through 
the gloom and cold of the saddest Christmas day that 
had ever dawned for him, for no matter how old a man 
grows, nor how great the success he may achieve, his 
best friend is always his mother, and to-day Jack had 
none. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE VILLAIN TO THE FRONT. 

NOTHING could have pleased Dorothy Merlebank 
better than to spend a few weeks at ‘^Glymont.’’ In 
the first place, it pleased her to know that through 
her father^s skill as a professional man she had the 
entree to the home of the millionaire, and in the sec- 
ond place Miss Dorothy had a vague hope that she 
might possibly win the old man’s heart and inherit at 
least a part of his gold. ‘There were worse things 
than being ‘an old man’s darling,’ ” she said, “particu- 
larly when there is not the slightest chance of being 
burdened long with his affections, and what boundless 
possibilities are there not open to a widow young and 
rich?” 

While her busy brain wms plotting this stupendous 
piece of deception Dr. Merlebank, her gifted father, 
was seated at a desk in the library writing a letter. A 
glance over his shoulder revealed the following : 

“I^Iy Dearest ’Delle: The right opportunity has 
presented itself at last. I am now in constant at- 
tendance upon a dying millionaire. None the less 
dying because he may live several months, though he 
may pass away at any moment. I am very much in 
need of a trained nurse. Do you think you can come, 
with Miss Casw^ell as assistant? Answer or come at 
once — remuneration ample and sure. Dorothy is here 
‘queening’ it, as she usually does, over every one, from 
the gray-haired butler to Mr. Sinclair’s pretty fiaxen- 
haired granddaughter. I shall expect an immediate 
response. Jerry.” 


15 


This letter was addressed to ^^Miss Adelle Flaxham, 
Poughkeepsie, N. Y.” 

Mr. Sinclair rebelled, at first, against having a 
trained nurse, but after a good deal of persuasion Dr. 
Merlebank convinced him that such a course was ab- 
solutely necessary, and he relented, though persist- 
ent in his declaration that trained nurses were ^The 
very devil in petticoats.” 

Two days later the nurse had arrived and was duly 
installed in the sick room. For a few days Mr. Sin- 
clair obeyed her like an automaton, asking no ques- 
tions, and submitting to her orders like a docile child; 
but all of a sudden he developed a wonderful antipathy 
to her, and would fret himself into the highest state of 
nervousness when she was near. Miss Caswell he 
agreed to tolerate, so long as the Doctor would keep 
‘^that she-devil with the corkscrew curls out of his 
room.” However, Miss Caswell could not remain on 
duty both day and night, and Miss Flaxham took upon 
herself the work of night watch. 

For the first week Mr Sinclair appeared to improve 
under Dr Merlebank’s treatment. He had recovered 
his faculties to a remarkable degree, and appeared in 
every way to be convalescent. Dr. Merlebank declared 
that remedies were now superfluous, and ordered that 
his patient be at once put on a tonic and beef-tea. 
Strange to say, this change seemed to have a very de- 
pressing effect upon the old man, who began to grow 
weaker, and at the end of two weeks his condition was 
far more critical than it had been at any time since his 
first attack. 

Marguerite had wept until her pretty eyes- were 
almost closed. 

Dr. Merlebank, meeting her in the hall after one of 
those terrible paroxysms of weeping, took her by the 
arm and stroking her head tenderly tried to comfort 
her, but she only shook her head. 

‘^No, Doctor, if my dear grandfather dies I shall be 
utterly alone in the world. I shall have no one to love 
me then.” 

“My dear child, you must not be so hopeless. Such 


16 


a lovable creature as yourself will never be without 
friends. Ah, my dear, if I only dared to hope that you 
would let me protect you, I should cherish you like 
some tender hot-house flower. Margie — ’’ 

^‘How dare you, sir?’’ exclaimed the young girl, shak- 
ing his hand from her arm. ^^How dare you speak to 
me in this manner?” 

beg pardon if I have offended. Miss Courtney, and 
assure you I had your best interests at heart in all I 
said. Your grandfather can not possibly last longer 
than a few hours unless there is a decided change in 
his condition, and my great love for you, which has 
been like a consuming fire in my heart since the first 
moment I beheld your face, has led me to be a little 
hasty. I could not see those tears and not speak. I 
am a rich man. Miss Courtney, and were you to ac- 
cept the great love I offer, you would have no cause to 
fear the future. Were I a poor man I should never pre- 
sume to address you so far, knowing as I do that I 
would but be called a fortune-hunter; but your dower 
shall be your own, to dispose of as you will. My heart 
and fortune I lay at your feet.” 

^Wou are very kind,” replied Marguerite, ^^but I 
can not accept your offer. If my grandfather dies 
to-day I shall be a penniless orphan, but I could not be 
so ignoble as to marry a man I did not love in order to 
share his fortune.” 

penniless orphan?” echoed the Doctor; ^^surely, 
Miss Courtney, you do not understand. You are Mr. 
Sinclair’s heiress, as his will, made on last Christmas 
day, ^ives you every dollar he possesses.” 

^Wou are mistaken. Dr. Merlebank. If my grand- 
father dies I am a penniless orphan. The will, as you 
say, was drawn up last Christmas morning, but grand- 
father could not move a muscle in his arm, so it was 
never signed. When he was sufiiciently recovered to 
do so, Mr. Deswald, our lawyer, was confined to his 
bed with a severe attack of typhoid pneumonia, and is 
even now unconscious, as my grandfather is.” 

The Doctor’s face grew pale. 

^^My God, Miss Courtney, this is terrible. Were it 


IT 


not for the hope that you would reconsider my proposal 
J should this day make my will to insure my darling 
Dorothy^s safety. Life is so uncertain.’’ 

^^Do not for a moment let me stand in the way of 
your daughter’s interest, Dr. Merlebank. I assure you 
my answer is final.” AVitli this she was gone, and the 
Doctor had ample time to refiect over what he had 
heard — and as might be very apxjropriately supposed 
he ended by calling himself a d d fool. 

So the will had not been signed, the lawyer was un- 
conscious, Mr. Sinclair unconscious, and Marguerite 
was penniless. This would never do. Hurrying up 
The stairs as rapidly as he could without exciting sus- 
picion the physician entered the sick room and began 
to examine the patient. His heart-beats, though weak, 
were still regular. That much was favorable. Miss 
h laxham, who was seated at the window with the 
latest novel in her hand, looked up and said: ^^Well, 
Doctor, the last dose has been administered, and every 
precaution taken.” 

“Yes, and we have made a mess of it, and fools of 
ourselves. We must give an emetic at once.” 

Miss Flaxham was at his side in a moment. Warm 
water and mustard were immediately brought forth, 
liot bricks placed at the patient’s feet, and everything 
that skill could suggest was done to restore circulation. 
After two hours of hard work and breathless suspense 
they were rewarded by favorable symptoms, and Miss 
Caswell was called in to keep watch while these two 
rested from one of the most trying experiences of their 
lives. 

That evening a penciled note was sent up. to Mar- 
guerite which ran as follows: 

“My Deati Miss Courtney: I was so terribly shocked 
at the startling news that you gave me this morning, 
I felt that something must be done for Mr. Sinclair. I 
went at once to his room, and calling Miss Flaxham to 
my assistance, I immediately set to work to accomplish 
wiiat has rarely been done, namely, arrest death after 
it had once taken hold of the body. For several hours I 
was in doubt as to whether my work would be success- 


18 


ful, but I am happy to say the crisis is past and your 
grandfather will live. How happy 1 am to impart thji 
good news to you, my love. 

^‘Devotedly yours, 

^‘Jeremiah Merlebank.” 

Marguerite snatched the little note to her lips and 
kissed the penciled words. In the exuberance of her 
joy she felt that she could have kissed the earth at the 
feet of the good Doctor. 

She wrote back, on a slip of dainty violet-scented 
paper: 

^^God bless you, dear Dr. Merlebank; you have made 
me very happy. Marguerite Courtney.’^ 

This little note was tucked away in an inside pocket 
as carefully as though it had been some precious jewel, 
and the errand boy received a dollar for telling that 
‘^Miss Margie kissed de note what you sent her;’’ which 
act was of course misconstrued by the scheming little 
Doctor who was transported into the seventh heaven 
of delight. 

It seemed as though the good physician were gifted 
with some superhuman power, so rapidly did his pa- 
tient convalesce, but with returning strength his old 
aversion to Miss Flaxham became more apparent, and 
he declared that she must go. This Dr. Merlebank 
would not listen to. ^^Miss Caswell would do very 
well,” he told Mr. Sinclair, ‘dn a case where experience 
was not necessary, but to Miss Flaxham the old man 
owed his life, and he insisted that she remain at ‘Gly- 
mont’ in order to be present, should an emergency de- 
mand the presence of a skillful nurse.” 

While the Doctor was remonstrating with Mr. Sin- 
clair, a pretty, fresh face was thrust in at the door and 
a sweet, girlish voice asked: 

^^May I come in to see Mr. Sinclair, papa?” 

^^Certainly, my dear. Mr. Sinclair is much better 
this morning, and a little chat with you will do him 
good.” 

Dorothy glided into the room and laid a bunch of 
great dew^y white roses on the pillow. 


19 


‘‘There, Mr. Sinclair, I have brought you a bunch of 

owers that some one was kind enough to send me. I 
nope their fragrance will do you good.^^ 

“Thank you, thank you, my dear; roses were always 
my favorite flower. They have cheered me already,’’ 
said Mr. Sinclair, smiling into the piquant young face 
that bore such a sympathetic expression. 

“Then I shall see that you get them every day,” said 
Dorothy, and turning to her father she continued: 
“Papa, dear, I will remain with Mr. Sinclair until he 
feels like going to sleep if you wish to take a walk.” 

“Thank you, dear; I think I will accept your offer, as 
I feel the need of the fresh air this morning,” replied 
the Doctor. “She’s a chip of the old block, is my pretty 
Dorothy,” he said with pride, as he left the room. 

Miss Flaxham was seldom seen in the sick room, ex- 
cept at night, since Mr. Sinclair had declared that she 
must go. Miss Caswell very discreetly withdrew to the 
bay-window when Dorothy entered, so that the young- 
lady was free to air her charms and graces for the old 
man’s benefit. After chatting in her most vivacious 
manner for half an hour, she asked: 

“Would you like me to read to you, Mr. Sinclair?” 

Mr. Sinclair expressed a desire for her to do so, and 
under the soothing influence of a musical voice lent to 
the rythm of a favorite poem he was soon asleep. 

Every morning after this Dorothy spent an hour, at 
least, in the sick room, and Mr. Sinclair grew very fond 
of her for the many little attentions ihe paid him, but it 
was always Marguerite’s loving hands that prepared 
the invalid’s breakfast and bore the tray to his room. 
She would trust no hired servant to do this, and if Dor- 
othy Merlebank thought to supplant the loving grand- 
daughter in the millionaire’s heart she had certainly 
reckoned without her host. The wily Doctor, patting 
his daughter on the head approvingly, asked: 

“So you are trying to win your way to the old man’s 
heart, my dear? Very well, Doll; here’s my hand on it. 
I wish vou success. Kemember, ‘to the victor belong 
the spoils.’ ” 

Dorothy flushed a vivid crimson and rushed from 
the room. Her confusion might have been occasioned 


20 


by her father’s remark, and might have been occasioned 
by the rattle of a paper, hidden somewhere in the folds 
of her dress, as her father caught her in his arms. Dr. 
Merlebank attributed this to her girlish modesty, but 
as he had once before remarked, ‘^Dorothy was a chip 
of the old block,^’ and there was duplicity in her na- 
ture which even her shrewd parent could never guess. 
Once inside the protecting walls of her own room she 
drew the offending paper from her bosom and with 
a frown of displeasure tore it in twain. There was 
not a match to be had, or this very important docu- 
ment would have been burned to ashes before Miss 
Dorothy’s eyes. As it was, she tossed it in a small 
cabinet and after securely locking it returned the key 
to her chatelaine. 

She was just preparing to leave the room, her pretty 
face as calm as though the last five minutes had been 
but a horrid dream, from which she had awakened, 
when there was a rap on the door, and Miss Flaxham, 
her corkscrew curls all awry, entered. Her breath 
came in little, short gasps, as she said in a stage whis- 
per: 

^^Oh, Dorothy, my dearest; I fear we are about to 
have some dr^dful exj^erience. There is a man — oh, 
his face is strangely familiar — coming up the walk, 
and he is bringing a large basket. Oh, Dorothy, what 
if—” 

^^Hush, hush!” exclaimed Dorothy; ^There is some 
one coming. Dear Miss Flaxham — 

^AVhy, what is the matter,” asked a cheery voice as 
the fat little Doctor thrust his head into the room, and 
Miss Flaxham, with a low moan, sank to the floor. 

^Tndeed, Dolly, I can not stand. I am sure my ankle 
is sprained. Don’t worry, dear; it will be better by 
and by. Please assist me to my room, Jerry; I shall 
be better there.” 

A sharp ring at the bell roused old Peter from a 
deep reverie, and upon opening the door he found, to 
his astonishment, not a person, but a great willow 
hamper, packed to the top with snowy garments. 


21 


^^Dat old wash-woman took leabe of her senses,” 
muttered the butler, as he raised the heavy basket, and 
started toward the housekeeper’s room; “come leabin’ 
de clo’es at de front do’ widout a word.” 

A soft coo issuing from the white clothes startled 
the old darky, and immediately depositing the basket 
on the floor he turned back the topmost garment and 
there, before his eyes, lay — a beautiful, smiling baby! 


CHAPTER 111. 


RATHER A TANGLED THREAD. 

THE natural love for a little child broke over Peter’s 
face in a succession of smiles, and when the little waif 
cooed softly and extended her dimpled hands to him 
she at once established in his heart a lasting friend- 
ship. 

Miss Courtney was summoned to the library and 
Peter triumphantly laid the hamper before her and 
uncovered the smiling infant. 

^^Why, Peter, what does this mean?” she asked, gaz- 
ing with undisguised admiration upon the fair dimpled 
face of the little cherub. 

^T’s axed dat same question of myself for de las’ live 
minutes. Miss Margie, an’ 1 ain’t so’ved de myst’ry 
yet. Dat basket, dess lak you see it, was lef’ at de 
front do’ ’bout five minutes ago, an’ I brung it in. Dar’s 
de truf’, de whole truf’, an’ nothin’ but de truf, so far 
as I knows. Maybe dey’s a note pinned to de little 
critter dat’ll tell somethin’ ’bout her.” 

Acting upon this suggestion. Marguerite began to 
search among the clothes for some word or note by 
which she might identify the little one, but beyond 
the one word ^Tfillian,” in blue enamel on a tiny ring 
which the child wore, there was nothing to indicate 
that she was other than she appeared — a waif, aban- 
doned by heartless parents, and left to the cold chari- 
ties of the world. 

Dr. Merlebank declared that the little one should 
be sent an orphanage or turned over to the police. 

^^Oh, papa, how could you be so cruel?” cried Doro- 
thy, wringing her hands in sympathetic excitement. 


23 


^^Ilather say bow could a mother be so heartless?” 
said Marguerite. ^^Do you think I may show the baby 
to my grandfather and ask his advice about it?” she 
said, turning to the Doctor. 

^^It will not do any harm, Miss Courtney; but if you 
will allow me to make a suggestion, I should send for 
the police and have the matter investigated.” 

Marguerite gathered the little one up in her arms 
with Madonna-like tenderness and left the room. 

She had just laid the story of the baby^s unheralded 
arrival before Mr. Sinclair when Dorothy^s fluffy head 
was thrust in the room. 

^^Ah, Mr. Sinclair, you, too, are being treated to a 
recital of this unprecedented affair. Quite a romance, 
isn’t it? However, I came to say that I will watch 
by you to-night in Miss Flaxham’s stead. Always pro- 
vided you will permit me to do so. Miss Flaxham 
had the misfortune to sprain her ankle this evening, 
and fears she will not be able to resume her post for 
several days. Do you think — ” 

^^Praise the Lord for one blessing!” exclaimed Mr. 
Sinclair. ^AVith all due respect to your honored 
friend. Miss Merlebank, I wish it had been her neck. 
Yes, Margie, see that the child is taken care of until 
I can make further arrangements. You see. Miss Mer- 
lebank, the news you brought has made a Good Samar- 
itan of me. I shall be delighted to have you supply 
Miss Flaxham’s place, and I feel sure the vacancy could 
not be better filled.” 

^^Thank you, Mr. Sinclair; I feel immensely flat- 
tered,” said Dorothy. ''After all,” she continued, "I 
believe more in pleasant surroundings and good com- 
pany than I do in medicine for sick folk.” 

"My sentiments exactly,” exclaimed Mr. Sinclair, 
"and if you’ll leave off the medicine to-night. Miss 
Dorothy, you shall have a diamond necklace.” 

"Agreed!” cried Dorothy, with a bright laugh. 

To an outsider the arrangement at "Glymont” would 
appear remarkably unique, but it must be remembered 
that the situation was also unique. A week went by 


24 


witliout any change wortny ot comment. Mr. Sinclair 
was very little improvea. 'me twenty-nth day of 
March tne Doctor eniered the room with a smile on his 
bearded face and a general air of satisfaction in his 
movements as he paused beside the bed, feeling his pa- 
tient’s pulse. 

“Ah, 1 see you are slightly improved this morning, 
my good friend,” he said. 

“Improved without you and your villainous prescrip- 
tions, 1 dare say,” replied the old man, with a contemp- 
tuous jerk of his head. 

A momentary frown flitted over the physician’s be- 
nign features as he dropped into a chair, but it was 
quickly replaced by the pleasant smile w hich had be- 
come habitual to him in the past two months. 

“Oh, I suppose you are tired of sw^allowdng pellets 
and capsules, 1113’ dear sir; but to be plain wdth you, it 
is an absolute necessit^^ if you wdsh to rise from your 
bed again. No physician cares to drench his patients 
wdth remedies save in a case w^hich renders it incum- 
bent upon him to do so. Your extreme old age is the 
one great barrier betw^een 3^our present condition and 
a speedy recovery. Old age requires very gentle rem- 
edies, great patience, and skillful handling.” 

“Old age, old age,” repeated Mr. Sinclair; “I’ve had 
that dinned into my ears until I begin to feel that I am 
a modern Methuselah. One w^ould think old age a 
crime to hear ^-ou talk, and for my part I am sick of 
your platitudes, and I insist that you leave my age out 
of the question henceforth. If you can do anything to 
relieve me I w^ant you to get about it; if you can not, 
simply say so, and I shall set about employing some- 
body who can.” 

The Doctor’s face grew" a trifle paler under this ti- 
rade, and he hastened to say: 

“Ah, Mr. Sinclair, no sign so good as fretfulness in 
a sick man. You are decidedly on the road to recovery. 
A few" more days on this tonic w"ith half a dozen bottles 
of beef tea. and you w"ill be sprv as a spring lamb.” 

Mv. SincLnir tugred at the counterpane impatiently. 

“I’ve heard that storv for two months now, Merle- 
bank, and to tell the truth that tonic is killing me by 


25 


inches. Instead of improving I grow worse every dose 
1 take.’’ 

^^Tliat is only a sick man’s notion, Mr. Sinclair; the 
tonic is making a new man of you. Give me tjvo more 
weeks and you’ll be out of doors again.” 

Just how much the Doctor meant by that last re- 
mark was not given the old man to know. 

Mr. Sinclair closed his eyes wearily and ran his long 
fingers through his scant gray locks. 

“Leave me, Merlebank, leave me; I’m tired of looking 
at your red face, and for Heaven’s sake keep that she- 
devil of a nurse out of here. Her black eyes and cork- 
screw curls make me feel like I am in a heathen land.” 

The Doctor turned his face aside. 

“Miss Flaxham is a very valuable assistant in a case 
like yours, Mr. Sinclair. I assure you but for her you 
would not have been where you are now.” 

Again Mr. Sinclair did not know the depth of Dr. 
Merlebank’s remark. 

“Miss Flaxham may go to the devil for all I care,” 
exclaimed the old man; “and if my memory does not 
fail me, Merlebank, I reo nested you to leave me; will 
you do so or shall I ring for Peter to show you to your 
room?” 

“I prefer to remain with you until you have taken 
your breakfast,” replied the Doctor, calmly. “It is very 
important at this stage that you have the proper 
amount of nourishment, and I, as your attending phy- 
sician, can not neglect mv duty for the sake of gratify- 
ing a foolish notion on your part.” 

“Then you mav relieve yourself of any anxiety on 
that score. I had mv breakfast two hours aj?o- and al- 
low me to say that Beckv’s muffins were delicious, the 
coffee excellent, the steak cooked precisely as I like it, 
the eggs just right, and the butter as good as the very 
best countrv cream erv.” 

Mr. Sinclair had raised himself on his elbow and was 
looking complacently into tlm Doctor’s face. 

“Do you mean to sav that Becky has smuggled such 
a breakfast as von mention into this room and you 
have partaken of it?” 

“Precisely so.” 




26 


^^Very well, Mr. Sinclair; you have chosen to disobey 
my orders, and you must abide by the consequences. 
If you are a dead man inside of twelve hours I wash 
my hands of responsibility in the matter.’^ 

^There are a good many other things you might wash 
your hands of to your own advantage.’’ 

Apparently this remark v/as lost upon Dr. Merle- 
bank, who had crossed the room and was examining 
the medicine bottles on the buffet. 

^^How long since you had a dose of this beef tea, Mr. 
Sinclair?” 

^^That bottle has not been uncorked, to my knowl- 
edge, since your worthy assistant, Miss Flaxham, 
sprained her ankle,” said Mr. Sinclair. 

It required a great deal of restraint for the Doctor 
to conceal his vexation, but he set his teeth together 
and muttered: 

^^That is very unfortunate, very unfortunate. I shall 
request Miss Flaxham to resume her post at once. She 
can at least see that my instructions are carried out 
in regard to administering your medicine.” 

The invalid gave the bell-cord a sharp pull, and in re- 
sponse Peter’s ebon features and snowy locks appeared 
at the door. 

“Show Dr. Merlebank down to the library, and re- 
quest Miss Courtney to come to me.” 

Dr. Merlebank wheeled around suddenly and with- 
out a glance at the grav-haired butler strode out of the 
room, and as he did so a tiny box dropped from his 
pocket, unheeded, to the carpet. However, it did not 
escape the eyes of the old butler, who picked it up and 
dutifully laid it before his master. 

“My spectacles, Peter,” said the old man, eagerly 
scanning the words written on the corner of the box. 

“That will do,” he said; “you can place this box and 
that bottle of beef tea in my cabinet yonder, lock it se- 
cumlv, and let no one know you have the key.” 

“Yes, sir,” responded the trusted servant. 

Scarcely had the key turned in the lock when Dr. 
Merlebank re-entered the room. His color was height- 
ened perceptibly and his manner was one of extreme 
excitement. 


27 


“Can you tell me if I dropped a letter as I left this 
room, Mr. Sinclair 

^^No, sir, you did not, said Mr. Sinclair, irritably; 
^^and furthermore. Dr. Merlebank, yon would confer a 
favor on me by giving a preliminary rap before enter- 
ing my room again. That will do, Peter,’^ turning to 
the butler, ‘‘I will wait until I feel better before looking 
over the papers. Leave me now and send Miss Court- 
ney at ouce.’^ 

Peter held the door open until the Doctor passed 
out, following at a respectful distance down the stairs. 

A moment later a burst of song rippled through the 
corridors, the door of the sick room swung lightly 
open, and Marguerite Courtney tripped across the floor 
like a veritable fairy. She must have brought the 
breath of the sjjring morning and the warmth of the 
golden sunbeams with her, for the old man sat up in 
bed at sight of her, and a loving smile lit up his 
wrinkled countenance as she paused at the bedside. 

^^Oh, grandfather, you are better this morning, arenT 
you?^^ she cried, joyfully, pressing her fresh young face 
to his wasted cheek. 

am always better when you are near, my pet; the 
very folds of your dress seem to hold the sunshine,” 
said the old man, stroking back the sunny curls that 
fell like rings of gold over her delicate blue-veined 
brow. 

^^You will read to me now, my dear; there is nothing 
so soothing to my nerves as the sound of your voice, no 
opiate so productive of a refreshing nap. If I sleep 
sit by me until I awake, Margie, and be sure to remem- 
ber everything that transpires. It is important that 
I should know just what is going on under my roof.” 

When Dr. Merlebank returned to the old man’s 
chamber he fully expected to And the little box lying 
on the floor; failing in this, he directed his susnicious 
gaze toward old Peter and would have sworn that he 
was secreting the box until Mr. Sinclair made the re- 
mark about the papers. This completely disarmed 
him. With a muttered imprecation about the per- 


28 


versity of fate, he hurried down the corridor and made 
his way to Miss Flaxham’s room. 

“Confound it all!’’ he cried, dropping into a chair 
near the couch on which Miss Flaxhami reclined. 

The trained nurse looked up in evident astonish- 
ment. 

“What is it, Jerry; has something gone wrong?” 

“Everything has gone wrong! That bungling fool, 
who claims to be a trained nurse, has not given the 
old dotard a drop of the beef tea for three days, which 
simply means that the work of the past two weeks 
must be all done, over again. It was no end of a nui- 
sance you getting your ankle sprained.” 

Miss Flaxham raised herself to a sitting posture, 
and placing one arm around the Doctor’s neck, mur- 
mured softly: 

“After all, there is no one can so ably assist you as 
your — Miss Flaxham; is there, Jerry?” 

“No, there isn’t; but you must be careful, ’Delle, 
and don’t call me Jerry so often. Some of these devil- 
ish servants might hear you, and — by Heavens, ’Delle, 
why will you take such risks? . Don’t you know every- 
thing would go under if you were to be seen this way? 
Fix your hair at once.” 

“Oh, Jerry, it’s such a dreadful nuisance to have 
those horrid little curls dangling around one’s neck.” 

“Never mind that, it wdll be only for a few weeks 
longer if you follow^ my instructions.” 

“Follow^ your instructions and have my heart eaten 
out by seeing you hover over that baby-faced, flaxen- 
haired child, wdiom I detest? I tell you, Jerry, it mad- 
dens me.” 

“Don’t be foolish, ’Delle; it should not cause you a 
moment’s jealousy w^hen you know I have an utter 
contempt for the girl, and I’d sooner spend an hour in 
purgatory than stand and listen to her childish prattle 
about ^dear grandfather.’ By the w^ay, ’Delle, have 
you seen a small box of ninr vomica f I had it in my 
pocket this morning, but missed it a short time since.” 


29 


^^Why, Jerry, suppose it were to fall into the hands 
of some of the servants, what would they think 

^^Don’t alarm yourself unnecessarily, my dear; they 
would not know what it was. Ah, here is Mary; per- 
haps she can tell me something about it,’^ said the 
Doctor, veering suddenly. was returning from 
the drug store with a small package of medicine, in- 
tended for Miss Flaxham’s ankle, and upon reaching 
the room found that it had slipped from my pocket. 
Can you tell me if it has been found, Mary?’’ 

^^No, sir; I have not seen it,” replied the maid, as she 
busied herself dusting the furniture. 

^^Should you come across it,” said the Doctor, ‘^bring 
it to me at once. Such poisons are always best in the 
hands of those who understand them, and should never 
be handled by those who are ignorant of their effects 
or antidotes.” 

^^That was quite a bold stroke, Jerry. I had no 
idea you could embellish a lie to such a plausible ex- 
tent,” said Miss Flaxham, as the maid disappeared 
down the hall, and they were once more alone. 

^‘Kight you are, ’Delle; it was a plausible story, and 
one which will disarm all suspicion should the box be 
found.” 

However, old Peter, who had been a silent witness 
to the whole scene, did not think so. 

^^Bress de Lawd!” he muttered under his breath, as 
the Doctor bent and kissed Miss Flaxham ere leaving 
the room ; ^ J wonder what my ole Marse say to dat, an’ 
he settin’ up to pretty Miss Margie dess lak he never 
know dat Miss wid de corkscrew kurruls. An’ de 
pizen, too! Well, he never fin’ it, dat is one conso- 
lashiim to dis ole nigger, an’ here-somed-after he’s 
gwine to be watched, so dar! I’ll tell de whole truf’ 
an’ nothin’ but de truf’ to Marse Jack Dumbarton dis 
night, dat I will! an’ I know Marse Jack be dess same 
as a blood-hound on his track after dat!” 

As the last words fell from old Peter’s lips a firm 
hand filing aside the lace draperies from the low 
French window leading to the balcony, and a young 
man, tall, handsome, and athletic, entered the library. 


30 


The butler’s face seemed at once transfigured. ‘^Well, 
bress de Lawd! bress de Lawd! It is young Marse 
Jack, an’ no mistook. Talk about de angels, an’ you 
hear de flutter of dey wings. I was dess dis bressed 
minit a-sayin’ how glad I was dat you was a-comin’ 
to-night, an’ here you ’pears right before my eyes. 
’Deed, young Marse, I’se glad to see you.” 

^^Thank you, Peter,” replied Jack, shaking the old 
darky’s hand warmly. assure you the pleasure is 
mutual. How fares it with Mr. Sinclair and my little 
Margie?” 

^^Thank’ee, Marse Jack; ole ^larse ’pears to be feel- 
in’ some better an’ Miss Margie is dis minit a watchin’ 
ober him lak a stray beam of sunshine. But, Lawd 
bress ye, Marse Jack, what wid de little red-faced 
Doctor, de trained nuss, an’ de Doctor’s daughter, de 
house ’pears mo’ lak a hosspittle dan enything else. 
Every bressed step ye take some of dem has dey eyes 
on ye.” 

^‘That is rather odd,” murmured Jack, thought- 
fully. ^^Why is the Doctor’s daughter here?” 

^^’Deed, Marse Jack, you’s too hard for me. De Doc- 
tor, he say he come from some furrin parts an’ he can’t 
leave his motherless daughter ’mong strangers, an’ so 
long as old Marse ’quire his services all de time he ax 
to fetch her wid him, an’ here she be, actin’ de gre’t 
lady dess for de work lak de place b’long to her, an’ 
a-puttin’ on a’rs sich as Miss Margie never dreamed of.” 

This voluble speech seemed to amuse rather than 
excite suspicion in the young man’s mind, but nothing 
daunted old Peter related the story of the small box 
which had dropped from the doctor’s pocket, and added 
to it his own suspicion that it was ^^pizen.” 

^Trust me, Peter,” said Jack; will see that we 
have no foul play,” and the next moment he was bound- 
ing up the stairs toward the sick room, presumably to 
see Mr. Sinclair, but the look of eager excitement and 
pleasure that beamed from his eyes as they fell on the 
fair, girlish creature at the bedside told quite another 
story. Seeing that the old man was asleep. Jack did 
not enter the room, but turned down the corridor to- 


31 


ward the room he had occupied during a previous visit 
to ^^Glymont.’’ Turning the bolt, he found the door 
was locked. Evidently the room had been assigned 
to some one else during his absence. He was just 
turning away to inquire of Peter if this were the case 
when the door opened and a dainty little creature, clad 
in the palest of pink morning gowns, glided out. Upon 
beholding Jack, she took a step back and blushed in 
evident confusion. 

‘T beg pardon, Madame, for interrupting you,’’ said 
Jack; occupied this room upon a former visit to 
^Glymont,’ and did not know that during my absence 
it had been assigned to such a seraphic creature.” 

At another time this prettily-paid compliment, com- 
ing from such a handsome man, would have thrown 
Dorothy Merlebank into rhapsodies; now she simply 
stammered out : 

‘^Oh, I assure 3^011 this is not my room, sir. I onl}' 
locked myself in there to write some letters undis- 
turbed by the bustlius* chambermaid.” 

The very fact that she carried no letters in her 
hand seemed to contradict this assertion, but this 
passed unnoticed by J ack, and the petite young beauty 
glided down the stairs with a smile on her hrime face 
and — a fear in her heart. 

Torn bits of paper have often revealed startling se- 
crets, and an open grate is rather a conspicuous place 
in which to leave them. 


CHAPTER IV. 


THE BETKOTHAL. 

WHEN Jack entered the room lie dropped into a 
chair with the intention of dozing for a few minutes, 
in order to recuperate from a sleepless night of travel 
before meeting Marguerite. 

A bit of the torn paper fluttering from the grate 
attracted his attention; stooping to pick it up, he saw 
that it was a piece of heavy linen paper, not in the 
least like anything a lady would choose for her letters. 
Without knowing why he did so, he gathered up the 
remainder of the scraps from the grate, thrust them 
into an envelope and returned the envelope to his 
inside coat pocket, little dreaming that its contents 
would prove valuable as so many diamonds some time 
in the near future. 

In flve minutes all thought of Dorothy Merlebank 
and her mysterious scraps of paper had faded from 
his mind and he was sleeping as peacefully as a child 
on its mother’s breast, and, being thoroughly tired out, 
he did not wake until the afternoon was well advanced. 

After making some slight changes in his toilet he 
descended the stairs, hoping to And Marguerite, but a 
search through the lower rooms proved that she was 
not to be found on this floor, and Jack was on the 
point of going to Mr. Sinclair’s room, when the sound 
of her voice floated to him through the open windows. 
She was taking a walk through her favorite haunt by 
the lake, and to this spot the young lover directed his 
steps. 

A smile of pleasure, followed by a deep blush, flitted 
over her face as he approached, but with the guileless- 
ness of an innocent child she held out both hands to 


33 


him as he drew near. How Avondrously fair she was in 
the bright glow of the afternoon sun. Not even the 
lilies of the valley that studded the ground at her feet 
could have been fairer or purer than she. All the love 
of his manly young heart was expressed in Jack’s voice 
as he asked: 

“What word of welcome lias my little Marguerite 
for me to-day?” 

“l^ou are always welcome, Jack,” she said simply, 
and Jack pressed the snoAvy little hand lovingly and 
led her to a shaded seat under the tall trees that stood 
like giant sentinels aboA^e the crystal Avaters of the lake 
and AA^ere reflected back like beautiful figures in far-off 
mirage in the mirror-like surface of its tranquil bosom. 

“Marguerite,” he asked, looking lovingly into the up- 
turned face, “this is the day I Avas to receive my an- 
SAver; is it to be yes or no?” 

Again the fair face flushed to a rosy pink, the shy 
eyes were averted, and in the.loAvest of audible whis- 
pers she replied: 

“I liaA^e thought of it OA^er and OA^er again. Jack, and 
I can not bring myself to the thought of a long life 
Avithont yon. Be it for weal or woe it must always be 
the same. My ansAA^er is ‘Yes.’ ” 

And just like the impulsive young creature he was, 
Jack gathered her in his arms and rained a shoAver of 
passionate kisses upon the sweet lips that had chosen 
such loving Avords by Avhich to impart his fate, and 
Avith all the ardor of his fervent heart he murmured: 

“God bless you for your SAveet love, my darling.” 

For more than an hour they remained by the lake, 
conversing in low, loA^e-laden tones and planned for the 
bright future which Avas to be theirs, and in all their 
beautiful castles constructed on foundations of air, 
LoA^e was to reign as king. 

The day was almost spent Avhen they retraced their 
steps to the house, and a mile aAvay the city Avith its 
turrets and spires, its grand Avhite dome and tall mon- 
ument, gleamed like a city of gold in the light of the 
setting sun. 


34 


‘^Aud so you are betrothed, my sweet turtle-doves,’^ 
muttered a malicious voice as they disappeared inside 
the door. ‘^Ah, well, there never was an Eden without 
its serpent, and day never dawned that night did not 
follow, so beware, my fond lovers, that your castles do 
not melt into thin air. A month from this day the 
gates of your Paradise will be closed to your wander- 
ing feet and the flaming sword that guards its portals 
will forever keep you out. There have been harder bar- 
riers to break down than an old man’s prejudice, more 
difficult things to kill than a young girl’s faith, yet in 
my day I have accomplished both, and by the great- 
ness of my past achievements I sw^ear that the heiress 
of ^Glymont’ shall be mine, and its broad acres an in- 
heritance for me and mine forever!” 

^^Excuse me, my friend, but isn’t it rather a risky 
business to be making confidantes of the evening 
breezes?” asked a voice at his elbow, and turning the 
speaker stood face to face with Miss Flaxham. 

Strange to say, she seemed to suffer no inconvenience 
whatever from the sprained ankle which only a few 
hours before was swollen to twice its natural size and 
causing her the most excruciating pain. 

^‘For Heaven’s sake, ’Delle, what can 5^011 hope to 
profit by this recklessness?” 

^Tn the first place, my dear, I hope to retain the af- 
fections of — well, I shall not be as careless in regard 
to my confidantes as you were a moment ago. In the 
second, I learn that the skillful and renowned physi- 
cian, namely, Dr. Jeremiah Merlebank, is aspiring to 
an alliance with Marguerite Courtney, the last scion of 
a proud old race, an heiress to the Sinclair millions; 
and lastly, dear Jerry, I would say, do not tempt me 
too far. There are extremes which even I will not face. 
You have set your heart upon gaining, by fair means 
or foul, the Sinclair gold. Employ any means you 
please so long as you leave that fiaxen-haired child out 
of the question. Take my advice and I am your accom- 
plice, your dog, whatever you choose to make me; re- 
ject it, and — I defy you !” 

The smouldering fires that hid in the black depth of 
her eyes had leaped like a consuming flame to the sur- 


35 


face, and she confronted him like some hunted animal 
brouglit to bay. 

What a striking contrast! The chuhy little Doctor 
with his red face, watery blue eyes, and iusignincaut 
figure scarcely five feet in height, standing before the 
magnificent woman who towered above him in the 
regal majesty of a tragedy queen. 

‘^Keally, ^Delle,’^ said the Doctor, when he had recov- 
ered from the surprise evoked by her tragical words 
and manner, ‘‘I fear you have mistaken your calling. 
Nethersole could not have done better than that!^^ 

A crimson flush mantled the woman’s face. 

‘^Whatever my mistakes have been, yon are not the 
one to reproach me with them. Dr. Merlebank.” 

beg pardon, ’Delle. I assure you the warmest ad- 
miration of my heart is for yon and you alone. If my 
ways seem strange to yon in the little drama which is 
about to be enacted, onlj^ be patient and I swear to you 
that my allegiance to yon will remain unshaken. My 
attentions to the fair young heiress may go much fur- 
ther than your opinion would justify, but through it all 
the best part of my heart will be all for you.” 

very fine speech, Jerry; pretty sentiments and 
nicely rounded sentences, but all savoring of an under- 
current of falsity which it is difficult to conceal from 
one v/ho knows you as well as I do. However, I shall 
trust you; but, remember, a single lie to me and you are 
lost. I have the power. Like a mighty sword it hangs 
ever above j-our head. Beware lest you tempt me too 
far and — I use it!” 

With that she was gone, like some swift-footed spirit, 
flitting through the dusk by a sheltered path toward 
the house, and the Doctor was left staring like a de- 
mented creature into the still waters of the lake, on 
whose silent bosom the golden flecks of reflected stars 
glimmered like accusing eyes conjured up from the 
buried past to mock him with their light. 

^^Damn her!” he muttered, ^fit maddens me when she 
stares at me with her devilish eyes, and yet — I love 
her. My God, I am like wax in her hands, and I hate 
myself for it. Fool that I was to let a woman’s face 


drag me into such a quagmire of danger and perhaps 
death/’ 

Just what power she had over him remained for time 
to tell. He had fully made up his mind to marry Mar- 
guerite Courtney, secure the wealth which his evil 
heart craved, and then let the future take care of itself. 
He was wholly unprepared for the state of affairs as 
evinced by the lovers’ talk by the lake. Once Jack won 
the old man’s consent to their union all would be lost, 
and he at once set about devising some means by which 
he could keep Mr. Sinclair in ignorance of the betrothal 
for a few days. 

Hastening to the house he entered the sick room at 
once and assuming an air of profound seriousness ex- 
amined his patient’s pulse. 

^^You are not so well this evening, Mr. Sinclair.” 

^^No, I have a dreadful headache,” replied the old 
man, glancing inquiringly into the physician’s face. 

expected as much, Mr. Sinclair, when you told me 
of Becky’s imprudence and your lack of judgment, this 
morning. I shall endeavor to avert any further evil ef- 
fects by giving you a sleeping draught. Miss Caswell, 
I shall expect you to remain by Mr. Sinclair until I give 
you permission to quit your post, and, remember, that 
1 will have no more of Becky’s murderous viands 
broil aht to this room. Should your patient require 
nourishment, a glass of milk or a spoonful of beef tea 
will be all that is necessary.” 

All this had been uttered in a very grave, peremp- 
tory manner, and the little white-capped nurse looked 
with fearful admiration upon the imposing little Doc- 
tor who possessed about as much dignity ns the small- 
est bantnm in Mr. Sinclair’s poultry yard. The defi- 
ciency, however, was lost on Miss Caswell, who really 
had a very high opinion of Dr. Merlebank’s professional 
ability. 

^^You will ring for me if you should iierceive even 
the slightest change in his breathing, and upon no con- 
dition are you to admit any person to this room,” add- 
ed the Doctor as he turned to leave the room. 

This much of his mvsterious purpose accomplished. 
Dr. Merlebank ordered his horse and was soon gallop- 


37 

ing down the road in the direc tion of the city. Throw- 
ing the reins to a small boy who stood near, he walked 
rapidly into the Western Union Telegraph office and 
dashed off the following message: 

^‘Baron Von Floville, the AValdorf, New York: 

‘‘Come to Washington at once. Communicate with 
no one until I have seen you. Notify me immediately 
of your arrival at the Arlington. J. Merlebank.’^ 


CHAPTER V. 


^^BAEON VON FLOVILLE AT ^GLYMONT.' 

THEEE was but one obstacle in the way of Jack's 
perfect happiness. He was not yet sure of Mr. Sin- 
clair’s consent to a betrothal between himself and 
Marguerite. There was a faint flush on his manly 
young face as he mounted the stairs, repeating to him 
self — 

“ He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are small, 

Who dare not put it to the touch, 

To win, or lose it all.” 

He rapped lightly at the door of Mr. Sinclair’s room. 
The white-capped nurse tip toed across the floor and 
peered out into the hall. Jack bowed. 

^ J should like to see Mr. Sinclair,” he said. 

am very sorry to refuse you admittance, sir, but 
Dr. Merlebank has issued strict orders that Mr. Sin- 
clair is to see no one.” 

am sorry to have interrupted you,” said Jack, 
bowing politely. ^^To-morrow will do for my inter- 
view.” 

The nurse bowed, stepped back, and closed the door. 

Dr. Merlebank, covertly watching from a darkened 
corner of the hall, smiled serenely as Jack descended 
the stairs. “You have not won the victory yet, my 
young friend; physicians have many privileges not 
granted to other less fortunate mortals, and I predict 
that a week hence you will be denied admission to the 
gates of ^Glymont,’ and your engagement to the heiress 
be but a hopeless dream.” 

Becky’s temptingly-prepared breakfast did not reach 
her master the following morning, and if Mr. Sinclair 


89 


fell asleep immediately after drinking the glass of milk 
allowed him, no one had so much as an idea that sleep 
was produced by other than natural causes. Miss Cas- 
well obeyed implicitly the Doctor’s orders to admit no 
one so long as the patient slept. 

And so Jack’s second attempt to gain entrance to 
the millionaire’s presence was quite as fruitless as the 
first. 

Though Jack had scarcely been in the city twenty- 
four hours, Mr. Deswald had already been apprised of 
his arrival, and through the medium of a special mes- 
senger had dispatched him a message to come to his 
rooms at once. 

It seemed the very perversity of fate that Jack 
should be called away from ^^Glymont” at this partic- 
ular time, but there was a strong attachment between 
the two men, and Jack would as soon have thought 
of denying his own father a request as Mr. Deswald. 

It seemed as though special messengers were the 
order at ^^Glymont” on this particular morning; scarce- 
ly had the great iron gates closed after the first when 
a second came dashing up the walk. 

Dr. Jeremiah Merlebank was the recipient of the 
second message, which ran as follows: 

Arrived in Washington at 5 a. m. Come to me at 
once. Stanley Von Floville.” 

A smile, such as might have spread over the face 
of the Evil One when he saw our first parents ejected 
from the Garden of Eden, beamed on the face of the 
corpulent little Doctor as he read the words scrawled 
over half a sheet of paper. 

^There is no answer,” he said laconically, dropping 
a coin into the grimy hand of the boy. 

Ee-entering the house, he issued an order for the 
fastest horse in the ^Tllymont” stables, and with the 
single word ^Won Floville” to Miss Flaxham, he was 
gone. 

The meeting between the Baron and the Doctor was 
certainly much warmer than simple friendship would 
have dictated. When the first greetings were, over 


40 


and the Baron suggested they settle down to business, 
the Doctor arose and locked the door. 

^^Precaution costs nothing/’ he said, ^^and is often 
very valuable.” 

^‘Quite light you are," said the Baron, as he threw 
himself down full length on a divan. ^‘Now tell me of 
this wonderful Midas and the heiress. By the way, 
Merlebank, who knows but I shall cajdure the matri- 
monial prize after all?" 

^‘One at a time, Stanley, is the safest plan,” replied 
the Doctor with a sarcastic smile. 

Von Floville shrugged his shoulders. 

^^You are doggedly persistent in referring to my 
mistakes, Jerry. At any rate, you will favor me with 
the name of your worthy friend, the millionaire, and 
his charming granddaughter.” 

^^First of all, Yon Floville, 1 will have no underhand 
business in this affair. You must agree to abide by 
my rules.” 

‘‘Most willingly.” 

“You sw^ear it?” 

“I swear it.” 

“So far so good,” said the Doctor.“ Now to business. 
Mr. Sinclair is — ” 

Von Floville sprang to his feet. 

“Sinclair!” he exclaimed; “do you mean to tell me 
that it is Janies Sinclair who is your patient?” 

“I do. Is there anything so strange about that?” 

“Merlebank, 1 withdraAV. Janies Sinclair is far too 
good a man to be — I pause. I will not use the word. 
I repeat, I withdraw. Carrv vour scheme out by your- 
self.” 

“You are a fool!” 

“Perhaps so, Jerry, but not a — ” 

“Finish the sentence and I’ll murder you!” cried the 
Doctor, his face livid with fear, rather than rage. 

The Baron resumed his seat. Merlebank grew 
calmer. 

“Come, now, Stanley, be reasonable. You have met 
Mr. Sinclair, have you not?” 


41 


“Yes/’ said Voii Floville, “I met him abroad several 
times.” 

“So much the better,” rex)lied the Doctor. “That 
leaves the way perfectly clear. Our little plot cau go 
through without a hitch.” 

“Jerry, I can uot.” 

“I say you cau, and, furthermore, I say you musty you 
SHALL !” 

The Barou grew pale. The Doctor coutiuued: 

“lu the first place I Avill meutiou that I met you by 
accideut, to-day. I will eviuce the greatest surprise 
that you aud Mr. Siuclair have met, secure au iuvita- 
tiou for you to visit Yllymout,’ aud — ” 

“But you say that Mr. Siuclair receives uo visitors,” 
X)ersisted You Floville. 

“Oh, well, he’ll receive you fast euough. Dou’t let 
a trifle like that worry you. A moueyless Barou cau’t 
afford it,” said Merlebauk, “aud once for all, Stauley, 
I will have uo foolishuess iu this matter.” 

The remaiuder of the couversatiou was carried ou iu 
au uudertoue, aud wheu the two parted You Floville’s 
face wore a yieldiug expressiou, Merlebauk’s a tri- 
umphaut oue. 

Wheu Jack reached the lawyer’s office he fouud Mr, 
Deswald pale aud emaciated from his loug illuess, 
propped up by half a dozen x)illows, iu au easy chair. 
Jack was visibly affected at sight of his old frieud, aud 
there were tears iu his eyes as he shook the wasted 
haud extended to him and his voice trembled as he 
said: 

“My dear frieud, it grieves me to see joii so ema- 
ciated, so unlike your former self.'' 

The elder man smiled. 

“Ah, my boy, I have been very near the borderland. 
Let us thank God that he saw fit to spare me for a little 
longer. How goes it with my old friend, Mr. Sinclair?” 

“Mr. Sinclair appeared to have suffered a slight re- 
lapse,” replied Jack. “Dr. Merlebauk demands the 
most perfect quiet, and I have uot vet been permitted 
to see him.” 

The lawyer shook his head sadly. “I fear that our 
friend is not to remain with us long. Old age is a hard 


42 


master, Jack — a hard master and a cruel tyrant — and 
Mr. Sinclair has almost reached the allotted years of 
man. I trust he may be spared until his affairs are set- 
tled and our star-eyed Marguerite provided for. The 
dear child will soon be alone in the world.’^ 

A flush of pleasure brightened the young man^s face. 

^^Unprovided for she may be, Mr. Deswald, but not 
alone. Only yesterday Marguerite promised to become 
my wife.’^ 

^^Thank God, then, her future is safe. My dear boy, 
with all my heart I congratulate you. God grant that 
you may both be as happy as your old friend desires 
you to be.’^ 

A ring at the door, followed by the appearance of 
the bell-boy with a card, interrupted the conversation. 

^^Show the gentleman in,^’ said Mr. Deswald. 

^^Good morning, good morning, Mr. Deswald; I am 
glad to see you at your office once more.^’ . 

Mr. Deswald attempted to rise, but sank back among 
the pillows wdth a heavy sigh. 

^^Permit me to introduce my young friend and law 
partner. Jack Dumbarton, Mr. Spence.’’ 

The two men shook hands. 

am pleased to meet a young man who has the 
good fortune to be called a partner of Mr. Deswald, Mr. 
Dumbarton, and allow me to say if you were not ex- 
ceptionally talented you would not enjoy that distinc- 
tion.” 

Jack acknowledged the compliment with a courteous 
bow, and Mr. Spence turning to the lawyer said: 

dare say you are not yet strong enough to prose- 
cute anv ver}^ important case, Mr. Deswald, but to tell 
the truth we are sadly in need of your advice in the 
case of this stupendous pension fraud. Half a dozen 
letters from as many different persons have been re- 
ceived by the Government, announcing the gigantic 
piece of deception. The case comes up the first of May. 
That leaves us onlv one month in which to get the 
sworn depositions of these persons, all of whom reside 
in Montana. As we know of no one more capable than 
yourself, Mr. Deswald ” 

Mr. Deswald shook his head. 


43 


‘^Impos ibip, Mr. Spence, impossible. I could never 
stand the journey. However, here is my young friend, 
Dumbarton, thoroughly efficient and capable of accom- 
plishing what you desire, and ready to go to the ends of 
the earth to make for himself a name — eh. Jack?’’ 

‘^You flatter me, Mr. DesAvald,” said Jack. 

^^Confer vour favor on him, Mr. Spence. I’ll answer 
for the result.” 

And so it was decided that Jack should make the 
trip to Montana. It was deemed advisable that he 
should start the following morning, so he returned to 
^^Glymont,” determined to see Mr. Sinclair and win his 
consent to his marriage to Marguerite, but Dr. Merle- 
bank was inexorable, and so the poor fellow was forced 
to start on his Iona* journey, still in suspense as to what 
the old man would say to his proposal. 

An hour after Jack’s departure Dr. Merlebank, meet- 
ing Marguerite in the hall, saw from the dark circles 
under her eyes that she had been crying. 

^^Ah, Miss Courtney, you are looking sad, but I have 
news that will cheer you. Your grandfather is much 
better. There is every chance now for his recovery.” 

^^Dear Dr. Merlebank, how are we ever to thank you 
for the untiring interest you have taken in my grand- 
father?” 

^^Don’t mention it, Miss Courtney. The triumph of 
science over the ills of life is sufficient reward for a 
professional man. I am happy to have been of service 
to Mr. Sinclair. If you wish to see him this morning 
you have mv permission to do so. I believe my daugh- 
ter is with him at this moment. She has become very 
much attached to him and really took it verv hard that 
I would not let her go in for the past tv\^o days; but you 
see I was riirht, as his improved condition shows.” 

^A^ou are always right, Doctor Merlebank. I thank 
you for your permission and sliall go to grandfather at 
once.” 

Dr. Merlebank went in search of Peter. 

^Tf any one calls to see your master you are at lib- 
erty to show them up to his room,” lie said to the old 
servant. 

This welcome announcement filled old Peter’s heart 


44 


with delight. He thanked the Doctor with all his heart 
and reproached himself for ever having had a doubt 
as to his goodness. 

Scarcely half an hour had elapsed before the door of 
Mr. Sinclair's room was thrown open and the butler 
in an impressive voice announced— 

‘^Baron Yon Floville!'^ 

^^Show him in at once, Peter, said Mr. Sinclair, who 
was sitting in his easy chair for the first time since 
Christmas Eve. 

^‘Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, this is an unexpected pleas- 
ure,’’ said the Baron, as he crossed the fioor. was 
passing through AYashingtou, and by the merest 
chance learned that ‘Glymont’ was the home of my 
old and esteemed friend, James Sinclair. I assure 
you I am happy to see you sufficiently recovered to be 
up. I was informed by your physician. Dr. Jeremiah 
Merlebank, Avlioni I met at the ^\rlington’ yesterday, 
that you had been extremely ill.” 

While the Baron was going over this little prelimi- 
nary speech he had seated himself opposite Mr. Sin- 
clair, who now replied: 

J‘Yes, I have been very ill, very ill, sir; but Merle- 
bank tells me the worst is over and I am likely to die 
yet in a railroad ac'cident or a duel. I owe much to his 
skill, though at first, and in fact up to the last fe^v 
days, I must confess 1 did not like him.” 

“That was strange, Mr. Sinclair. Could you ac- 
count for this aversion? That is, had you known Mer- 
lebank — I believe that is his name — before he was 
called in to attend you?”asked the Baron, interestedly. 

“No,” replied Mr. Sinclair; “I had never heard of 
him before. The feeling arose first, I think, from an 
idea that forced itself upon me, that Merlebank was 
after my money. Foolish, wasn’t it? My dear Baron, 
will you kindly touch the bell. I think I must lie 
down. You will remain to dinner. Merlebank will 
introduce you to my granddaughter. Miss Courtney.” 

, “Thanks, Mr. Sinclair, 1 shall be pleased to — ” 

Before Yon Floville could finish the sentence the old 
n:an had fallen in a dead faint to the fioor. 


CHAPTER VI. 


WHICH TKEATS OF JACK DUMBAETOK. 

DK. MEELEBANK declared that the faint was due 
to nothing but over-exertion and Mr. Sinclair would 
be all right after an hour’s sleep. 

Our worthy friend, the Baron, needed no second 
invitation to induce him to stay to dinner, and when 
Marguerite, clad in a simple white muslin gown with 
blush roses in her corsage and hair, entered the dining- 
room, he was simply enraptured. 

No one knew just why Miss Dorothy preferred tak- 
ing dinner in her own room that day, and Miss Doro- 
thy kept her own counsel. 

Dr. Merlebank, as host, surpassed himself; the Baron 
was a modest guest, and Marguerite was willing to 
admit that the hour was a pleasant one. If she 
thought of Jack, speeding away from her as fast as 
steam could carry him, it was only to remember that 
in one short month he would return to leave her no 
more. 

By the time dinner was over and Yon Floville and 
Merlebank had finished a cigar, Mr. Sinclair had awak- 
ened much refreshed and fully prepared for a long 
talk with his friend from abroad. 

The Baron was the most diplomatic of visitors, and 
when the Doctor left, pleading an engagement for the 
evening, he promised to entertain the invalid in the 
most harmless manner. 

Thus assured of his patient’s welfare. Dr. Merlebank 
departed and Baron Yon Floville returned to Mr. Sin- 
clair’s room. The old man nevef tired of going over 
his travels abroad, and now that he could live them 


46 


over with one who had shared in his wild adventures 
it inspired him with new life. 

By the merest accident the Baron let fall a word to 
the effect that a young American, Dumbarton by name, 
had made one of a party who started for a ten days’ 
cruise on the ^lediterranean, in the Baron’s steam 
yacht, Belle Sylvia.’^ 

^AYe were just ready to pull in the gang-plank, when 
a woman, young and beautiful, dressed in the prevail- 
ing fashion, stepped aboard, sans ceremonie, and de- 
clared if Mr. Dumbarton went on this cruise she’d go, 
too.” 

A faint rustle of the curtains over the alcove caused 
the speaker to pause. 

^^Dumbarton, Dumbarton,” muttered Mr. Sinclair; 
^hlid you learn the young man’s Christian name, 
Baron?” 

^‘Oh, yes,” replied Yon Floville, ^ffhough at present 
I can not recall it. I have a very poor memory when 
it comes to names. James, Jack, let me see; I believe 
it was Jack. Y^es, I am sure it was. Jack Dumbar- 
ton. Well, to return to this beautiful nymph who 
seemed to have sprung up from the waters of the Med- 
iterranean. I was at a loss to know what to do. There 
were several ladies in our party, ladies of high rank, 
and Dumbarton was quite a favorite with the fair sex, 
and to do him justice was the life of the party. Alad- 
ame,’ I said, addressing the lady who had seated her- 
self in one of the deck-chairs with utmost complacenc^q 
%e are about to weigh anchor, and before doing so I 
would be pleased to know if there is any service I can 
render you?” 

‘Thank you, there is none,’ she rei^lied. I was at 
a loss to know how to deal with the strange creature. 
‘At least,’ she added, with charming grace, ‘nothing of 
importance. I should like to know if my husband is 
on board.’ ” 

“ ‘Y^our husband,’ I replied. ‘I beg pardon, Madame, 
but I have not the honor; your husband is ?’ 

“She drew a card from her case and handed it to me. 

“ ‘Mrs. Jack Dumbarton,’ I read, and at that moment 


47 


my young friend came on deck. At sight of the beau- 
tiful woman his face turned red and white by turns, 
and as I stepped up to him and demanded an explana- 
tion, he took the strange lady by the arm and went 
ashore. I was dumfounded at this little episode, but 
felt sure I should learn the sequel to it upon my 
return to Genoa, and in this I was perfectly correct. 
Ten days later the papers were full of the story.’’ 

Mr. Sinclair listened attentively. Again the cur- 
tain in the alcove rustled, and a fair, golden head bent 
eagerly forward to catch every word. 

^^Go on,” said Mr. Sinclair. 

^^There isn’t a great deal more to tell,” said the 
Baron. ^Tt appeared that Dumbarton, Avho was a 
young lawyer from one of the large cities of America — 
New York, I believe — had met the young lady in Paris, 
fallen in love with her before he even knew her name; 
the rest followed in the usual order. He wrote her a 
note requesting a meeting, which, of course, was grant- 
ed. After this a three- weeks’ courtship, a clandestine 
marriage, a blissful honeymoon and then — a deserted 
bride.” 

^^And where is this villain now?” demanded Mr. Sin- 
clair. 

^^Oh, he returned to America shortl}^ after the scan- 
dal came out and is now, I believe, working up some 
pension fraud for the Government. At least I heard so 
only yesterday.” 

^^Oh, Father in Heaven!” came in feeble accents from 
the alcove, the silken curtains parted, and a tottering 
figure fell forward at Mr. Sinclair’s feet. 

^AYhy, Margie, what is the matter?” asked Mr. Sin- 
clair, but there was no answer, and the Baron, perceiv- 
ing that Miss Courtney had fainted, sprang forward 
and gave the bell-cord a succession of pulls. In the 
briefest space of time the servants dashed pell-mell 
into the room, and for the next five minutes the great- 
est excitement reigned. 

Marguerite was conveyed to her room and Miss Flax- 
ham summoned to attend her, w^hile Joshua, the errand 
boy, was dispatched on the fastest horse for Dr. Merle- 
bank. 


•48 


Miss Caswell was busily engaged in trying to keep 
Mr. Sinclair as calm as possible, while through it all 
Baron Yon Floville acted like an excited child, rushing 
hither and thither in search of he knew not what, de- 
claring to ever}^ one he came in contact with that ‘dn 
the old country we never have such dreadful scenes, 
don’t you know.’’ 

By the time Dr. Merlebankreached ^^Glymont” quiet- 
ness had been restored, and save for Becky’s loud lam- 
entations over “pore, dear, little ^liss Margie,” there 
was nothing to indicate that anything out of the or- 
dinary had happened. 

Though the faint proved of short duration under 
Miss Flaxham’s treatment. Marguerite was still uncon- 
scious when the Doctor arrived, and in spite of all their 
endeavors to quiet lier she still wrung her hands and 
cried : 

^^Oh, God, it can not be true! Oh, Jack, Jack, speak 
to me and say that his words are false, false, false as 
he himself is false.” 

Brain feA^er in its Avorst form had set in, and for days 
she lay in the same condition uttering no word saA^e to 
wail out that pitiful, heart-broken cry AAdiich brought 
tears to the eyes of all who heard its hopeless words. 

The AvortliA^ Baron had returned to his rooms at the 
Arlington, but regularly each morning a bouquet of 
choicest floAA’^ers Avas sent, with his compliments, to 
Miss Courtne^y but neither compliments nor floAA^ers 
had power to soothe the poor broken heart; the hope- 
less erv had sunk to a faint whisper — 

^^Oh, Jack, dear Jack, I aauII not believe it of you.” 

Fourteen days went bv and there Avas not eA^en the 
slightest change in the young girl’s condition. EA^ery 
means known to medical science had been tried, to no 
avail. The Doctor was at his wits end. If Marguerite 
died all was lost, unless, indeed, the old man could be 
inveigled into an alliance with Dorothy. Be it said 
to the Doctor’s credit he now did all in his power to 
restore Mr. Sinclair to health, and ere long he had the 
satisfaction of seeing his efforts rewarded. 

Daily drives noAA^ took the place of beef tea and tonic, 
and Mr. Sinclair once more sat at the head of his table. 


49 


while Dorothy, like some gracious queen, sat in the 
place of the fair young girl whose life was fading away 
under the destroying flame of an uncontrollable fever, 
and eaaerly sought to supj)lant her in the old man’s 
heart. 

Every dav brought a letter from Jack to the object 
of his affections, but the strong protestations of his 
love, the endearing terms and sweet promises they con- 
tained, could bring no light to the ijale face, no joy to 
the sad heart of his dying young love. 

Old Peter carefully treasured these missives away, 
and no thought entered his honest old heart that they 
would prove instruments of torture to stab the breast 
of the mistress he meant so truly to serve. . 

Other physicians had been called in consultation 
with Dr. Merlebank, but they only agreed with hin^ 
that nothing could be hoped in Miss Courtney’s case 
until the twenty -first day, the day of the crisis, was 
passed. 

On the morning of this day Mr. Deswald drove over 
to ^^Gljunont,” declaring he would remain until he as- 
certained the best or the v/orst, as the case might be. 
The greater part of the day he remained in the library 
with Mr. Sinclair, and no one saw him except Miss Cas- 
well, and the two old servants, Becky and Peter, who 
served lunch to the two gentlemen in this room. 

Though it was past midnight both Mr. Sinclair and 
Mr. Deswald were still sitting up when Dr. Merlebank 
entered the library. He took Mr. Sinclair’s hand. 

^‘My dear sir,” he said, ^^the worst is passed, and we 
hope she will live.” 

Two big tears splashed down the old man’s cheeks as 
he said : 

‘^Let us thank God for His mercies.” 

The two men devoutly bowed their heads while Mr. 
Sinclair offered up thanks for the blessed hope vouch- 
safed unto him, to which both heartily responded, 
^^i^inen.” 

Dr. Merlebank returned to resume his watch by the 
sick bed, and IMr. Deswald and his host retired for the 
night. 

Mr. Deswald, thinking under the circumstances it 


50 


might be a painful subject for Mr. Sinclair, had not re- 
ferred to the engagement between Jack Dumbarton 
and Marguerite, and as no one else knew that the en- 
gagement existed, except Dr. Merlebank, Mr. Sinclair 
was left in total ignorance of the cause of poor Mar- 
guerite’s illness, and blindly attributed it all to her 
great anxiety over himself. As a matter of course, she 
had been under a very great mental strain, and added 
to this the fact that her lover had a wife already was 
more than her shattered nerves could bear. Her first 
thought was to tell it all to her dear old grandfather, 
and beg of him to take her away from it all, but before 
she could utter a word unconsciousness overtook her 
tired brain. The rest we know. 

However, Mr. Sinclair had fully made up his mind 
that unless Jack could exculpate himself he should be 
denied access to ^^Glymont.” 

Poor Jack, far away in Montana with not the slight- 
est knowledge of affairs at home, was fretting himself 
sick over this enforced absence from his betrothed. He 
wrote regularly to her, and also to Mr. DesAvald, but 
his frequent change of address left not the slightest 
chance for a letter to reach him, and often for days 
he would see no human being except the driver wTio 
took him by private conveyance over the rough mount- 
ain region of the wild west. 

The old man had formed an idea that it would be 
very desirable for Marguerite to win the Baron, and 
add to her many attractions that of a title. For this 
reason Von Floville was often invited to ^^Glymont,” 
and by the time Marguerite was able to sit u^) he had 
become a frequent Ausitor. 

Dr. Merlebank had succeeded in establishing himself 
in Mr. Sinclair’s good graces, and Avas only Avaiting 
for the opportunity to present itself Avhen he might 
declare himself and propose for the heiress. 

Von FloAulle had decided upon exactly the same 
thing. Matters greAV rather complicated AAdien the 
tAvo accomplices began Avorking at cross-purposes. 
Yet neither of them dared let fall before the other 
a hint of his intention, and so the plot thickened and 


51 


the clouds grew blacker over the innocent head of 
their victim. 

All the youth and joy seemed to have faded out of 
Marguerite’s life. For hours slm would sit wdth folded 
hands, speaking to no one, and when questioned as to 
how she felt she wmuld start as if from a dream, de- 
claring that she was only tired. Even little Lillian, to 
whom she had become very much attached before her 
illness, could not, wdth all her baby prattle, bring a 
smile to her face. 

Dr. Merlebank had told Peter in strict confidence 
that it would not do for her to see Jack’s letters for 
several days yet, and the good old darky continued 
to store them awmy, feeling sure they would one day 
bring the roses back to Miss Margie’s cheek and the 
starry light to her violet eyes. 

Never once dreaming that these letters could inter- 
est any person but the one for whom they w^ere in- 
tended, Peter did not take the precaution to lock the 
drawer in wdiich they w^ere kept, and one morning 
when he w^ent to add another yet to the number he 
found to his astonishment the letters gone and the 
drawer empty. Bitterly reproaching himself for hav- 
ing been so careless wfith such j)recious missives, he 
started out to inquire of the servants if any of them 
had moved the letters, but his quest wms fruitless. No 
one could give him the slightest information. Passing 
through the hall he met the Doctor. The Doctor 
paused beside a table. 

see there are letters here for Miss Courtney, 
Peter.” 

The old servant hurried foiwvard joyfully, feeling 
sure the missing letters w^ere found, but in this he wms 
sadly disappointed. There were only twm, and these 
had just arrived. 

“You may take them to Miss Courtney if you ( lioose,” 
said the Doctor indifferently, and Peter hastened to do 
so lest the Doctor should repent of his wmrds and de- 
mand that they be held until Marguerite wms better. 

A faint fiiisli overspread the young girl’s face as she 
recognized the familiar handwudting, but it was sue- 


52 


ceeded immediately by the deathly pallor which had 
become natural with her. 

Hastily breaking the seal, Marguerite read: 

^^Helena, Mon., June 1, 18 — . 

^^Dear Miss Courtney: When you read this letter I 
dare say you will call me the blackest villain on earth, 
and I admit that 1 deserve no better name at your 
hands. You will have learned by the time this reaches 
you that at the time I wooed you I was not free to do 
so, and I must confess that my heart was given to an- 
other before I ever saw your bewitching face, which 
at once attracted me, and added to this was perhaps 
the worst of my sins — I desired to win you in order to 
get possession of Mr. Sinclair’s money. You will per- 
haps despise me when I further tell you I should have 
gone on in my heartless scheme had it not been for 
the fact that my wife and baby arrived here last even- 
ing, and for my little child’s sake I feel that I must 
retrieve myself and once more become an honest man. 
When you feel that you can forgive me I shall be 
pleased to receive a line from you. 

^^With my best wishes for yourself and regards to 
Mr. Sinclair, I am, 

^‘Resxiectfully yours, 

‘Mack Dumbarton.” 

The letter dropped from a limp white hand, and 
Marguerite fell to the floor. AVhen they found 
her she was lying face forward on the floor, and the 
crumpled letter, which told its own story, was lying 
beneath her. 

Dr. Merlebank, bending over the unconscious 
form, declared she had sulfered a relapse, which was, 
of all things, the most to be dreaded. 

Mr. Sinclair was pacing the library floor, wringing 
his hands in silent agony, when the butler, thrusting 
his snowy head in the door, announced — 

^‘Mr. Jack Dumbarton.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT. 

ME. SINCLAIK stood still in speechless amazement. 
Grinding his teeth in his rage, he exclaimed: 

“How dare the unprincipled scoundrel show his face 
here?’^ 

Peter gave vent to his surprise by a single word. 

“Sir-r?’' 

“Admit the villain,’^ said Mr. Sinclair, facing the 
door as though he expected to be confronted by some 
horrible monster. 

Jack had not even stoi)ped at Mr. Deswald’s apart- 
ments upon his arrival, but hastened at once to “Gly- 
mont,’’ consequently he was in utter ignorance of Mar- 
guerite’s illness. 

Tall, handsome, manly, yet with the boyish sim- 
plicity which had never wholly forsaken him, he looked 
a very monarch of truth and honor as he entered the 
library. His face wore a look of unmistakable pleas- 
ure as he exclaimed: 

“Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, this is a pleasure I hardly 
dared to hope for.” 

Mr. Sinclair gave a contemptuous shrug of his 
shoulders. 

“Eeally, Mr. Dumbarton, I can hardly credit you 
with feeling any very great pleasure as regards the 
welfare of me and mine.” 

Jack stood aghast. 

“Mr. Dumbarton.” What had come over the old 
man since the happy days when he had greeted him 
with the old familiar words, “Well, Jack, my boy! how 
goes it with you to-day?” 

Jack could only falter: 


54 


•'.ur. Sinclair, I do not understand.” 

‘‘I must compliment you upon being remarka y 
dense, Mr. Dumbarton,” said Mr. Sinclair with cutD fg 
.sartasm. “1 presume you Avill also deny the fact txmt 
^ou ever saw this.” He handed Jack the letter which 
but an hour ago had fallen from Marguerite’s trem- 
bling hand, and as the young man read the color faded 
from his face and his limbs tottered so that he had to 
clutch at a chair for support, 

M hen Jack had read the letter through he looked 
Mr. Sinclair straight in the face. 

^^My dear sir,” he said, give you my word of honor 
as a gentleman, I never saw this letter before.” 

^‘You can throw an astounding degree of truth into 
false words, Mr. Dumbarton. If you did not write this 
letter will you tell me who did write it?” 

“That I can not do, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“You were in Helena, Montana, on June the first, Mr. 
Dumbarton?” 

“I was.” 

“You perceive the i)ostmark on this letter. Now if 
you did not write it, how does it happen that a letter in 
your own handwriting, bearing your signature, and 
coming from a place where you acknowledge you were 
staying, should reach my granddaughter, Mr. Dumbar- 
ton?” 

“This letter, Mr. Sinclair, is as much a mystery to me 
as to you.” 

“I should expect you to say so, Dumbarton, but evi- 
dence is against you. I suppose it will be gratifving to 
you to know that your purpose is accomplished. You 
have broken my granddaughter’s heart and she is at 
this moment in an unconscious condition, prostrated 
by brain fever from which she may never recover.” 

Jack was completely dazed. For a moment the ob- 
jects in the room floated around him like hideous fiends 
mocking him in his despair. 

“Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “I swear to you I am inno- 
cent of the dreadful charge you bring against me. I 
would rather suffer the tortures of the damned than to 
bring one pang of sorrow to the innocent creature who 
is dearer to me than my own life.” 


55 


Von play the despondent lover admirably. How- 
t you need indulge in no more theatricals. You 
w . t never see Miss Courtney again. As soon as she is 
sn iciently recovered to travel 1 shall take her abroad 
for a year. At the end of that time she will have for- 
gotten such a worthless scamp as you have proved 
yourself to be, and I intend that she shall become the 
wife of Baron Stanley Von Floville, a gentleman in 
every way worthy of her. You will go back to your 
wife and child enriched in experience but not in gold, 
as you so sanguinely hoped. I presume it will add to 
your comfort to know that my heiress will not be quite 
so wealthy as you anticipated, as she will only inherit 
one-half of my wealth. I intend to be married again in 
a short time to the daughter of my esteemed friend. 
Dr. Jeremiah Merlebank, and as a matter of course I 
shall provide amply for my wife.’’ At this point Mr. 
Sinclair touched the bell. With stately, dignified step, 
old Peter entered. 

^‘Show this gentleman to the door, Peter, and if he 
dares to call again you may show him outside the gates 
of ^Glymont.’ ” 

Jack rose. 

^AVhen I can prove my innocence to you, Mr. Sin- 
clair, I shall call at ^Glymont’ again. Until I can you 
shall see me no more.” 

^Yjood-bye, my old friend; I know you will not believe 
ill of me,” he said, shaking the old butler’s hand as he 
descended the stairs. 

''Good-bye, Marse Jack, good-bye, an’ God bless ye,” 
said Peter, brushing two big tears from his eves as he 
watched the young man sorrowfully retrace his steps 
down the flower-bordered walk and pass outside the 
ire n gates. 

Dr. Merlebank was in dire distress. Marguerite was 
reall.v in a precarious condition. He had applied every 
remedy that science could suggest, but the girl seemed 
to have done battling with life and resigned every fac- 
ulty to the ravages of disease, and during the brief 
moments that occasionally brought consciousness she 
would sigh in the most piteous manner and beg them 
to let her die. This was the last thing that Dr. Merle- 


5G 


bank would have done could lie have avoided it, for not 
only had he made up his mind to marry her but he had 
really learned to love the girl as much as his shallow 
heart was capable of loving any one. To be sure this 
was kept a profound secret from Miss Flaxham, Avho 
nursed the girl with something like a mother's tender- 
ness, and Miss Doroth}^ had never once guessed at the 
change in her father. The Doctor, entering the library 
from an opposite door, was just in time to catch the re- 
mark made by Mr. Sinclair to Jack Dumbarton, that 
he intended to marry Marguerite to the Baron. 

“Forewarned is forearmed,” quoted the Doctor, beat- 
ing a retreat, before either of the gentlemen had seen 
him. He also learned that Yon Floville had been 
scheming against him. There was one remark, how- 
ever, that the Doctor failed to catch in his eagerness to 
escape observation, and that was Mr. Sinclair’s inten- 
tion to wed Dorothy, and so when Peter rapped at the 
Doctor’s door Avith the message that ^Ir. Sinclair 
wished to see him. Dr. Merlebank could not imagine 
Avhat it meant. 

Mr. Sinclair placed a chair for him as he entered the 
library. 

“Well, Merlebank,” he began, smiling, “you be 
surprised v/hen I tell you I haA^e sent for you to ask one 
of the greatest favors a man can ask of another.” 

“My dear sir,” said the Doctor, “I shall be happy to 
serve you in any way that lies in my poAver.” 

“This is rather an odd time, considering that my 
granddaughter is so ill, to be thinking of such a thing, 
but the very uncertainty of life, as proA^ed by recent cir- 
cumstances, is what makes me, perhaps, a little pre- 
cipitate. To come to the point, Merlebank, I have 
fallen in love with your pretty daughter, and wish to 
make her my Avife. Do you think you can consent to 
having such a A^enerable son-in-laAv?” 

Dr. Merlebank could have shouted aloud for joy. 

“I must confess, Mr. Sinclair, that this is something 
of a surprise, but I Avill never stand in the way of my 
daughter’s happiness. Your age is really not the least 
objectionable to me. I have ahvays hoped that Dor- 
othy would marry a man who was pa^st the age for sow- 


57 


ing’ Avild oats. HoAA^eA'er, Dorotln^’s consent must gov- 
ern my decision in the matter.^’ 

“Oh, you dear, sAveet papa!’^ exclaimed Dorothy, 
rushing from behind a screen; “I have already given 
my consent to Mr. Sinclair’s proposal, and I am so 
happy because I shall alAA a^^s liaA e dear old ^GlymonD 
for my home.'’ 

Merlebank suav iioav that things Avere not in such a 
deplorable shape as he had deemed them half an hour 
ago. If ^larguerite died iioaa^ the entire fortune Avould 
go to Dorothy. But the Doctor by no means desired 
the young girl's death. He rather entertained a Avild 
hope that she Avould live. Once Dorothy got posses- 
sion of the Sinclair money there Avas no telling Avhat 
she Avould do. It certainly seemed that the prize the 
Doctor had so cleverly schemed for Avas about to slip 
from his fingers. 

Merlebank had not the slightest idea that the Baron 
had already proposed and Avon the consent of the old 
man, Avithout any regard v^hatever for poor Margue- 
rite’s feelings. 

Less than an hour after the Doctor left the library, 
Avhere Mr. Sinclair and Dorothy AA’^ere still sitting, 
Baron Yon FIoa ille Avas announced. 

Dorothy fied from the room like a frightened faAvn, 
and if her A^enerable loA^er had only been blessed Avith 
clearer Ausion he might liaA^e seen that she AAms very 
j)ale. 

The Baron had not long to remain; he had only 
called to inquire after Miss Courtney’s health and to 
say good-bye, as he AAmuld leaA^e for NeAV York that 
eA^ening, to sail for Germany the folloAving morning, 
a cablegram liaAung called him home to attend to some 
business connected Avith his ancestral estate, FloAulle- 
on-the-Khine. 

Mr. Sinclair Avas profuse in his regrets that the 
Baron should be so suddenly called aAvay, but of course 
business AA^as business and must be attended to, even 
gentlemen of rank not being exempt from such incon- 
venient affairs. 

Dr. Merlebank declared he Avould accompany his 


58 


friend to the depot at all hazards, and Mr. Sinclair, 
with true hospitality, at once placed the ‘^Glymont^^ 
carriage at his disposal. Nothing could have been 
further from the Doctor’s mind than a desire to see 
Von Floville off, except that he wished to be sure that 
gentleman was out of the way and not likely to play 
any tricks on him. They were scarcely out of sight of 
^^Glymont” when the Doctor said: 

^^This is rather sudden, Stanley, isn’t it?” 

‘^Well, rather,” agreed Von Floville. 

The very depth of his complacency irritated Merle- 
bank, who stared at him suspiciously. 

^^Look here, Stanley,” he said, ‘^once for all, I will 
have no duplicity in this affair.” 

‘^Has any one suggested such a thing, Merlebank?” 
asked the Baron in the same quiet manner, which was 
so exasperating to the Doctor. 

^‘See here, Stanley,” he exclaimed; ^^what does this 
sudden departure mean? No prevarication, now. I 
want the truth or nothing.” 

^^Well, Merlebank, if you persist in knowing, I must 
tell you, though I really do not care to air my domes- 
tic grievances before the public. To tell the truth, 
Madame, the Baroness, has become entangled in some 
little affair which requires the immediate presence of 
her husband, don’t you know.” 

‘Ts this true, Stanley?” 

^‘Absolutely.” 

“I dare say it would be better for you if Madame 
were to break her neck.” 

The Baron frowned. 

“One hardly cares to have one’s wife spoken of so 
disparagingly, whatever may be her faults.” 

“You forget,” said the Doctor, “that even such un- 
important persons as coachmen have been known to 
have ears.” 

“Damn the coachman!” exclaimed the Baron. “Real- 
ly, Merlebank, you have the greatest capacity for mak- 
ing a fellow feel uncomfortable of any one I ever saw.” 

“Rather say a capacity for making them careful,” 
said the Doctor, with a smile. 


59 


By this time they had reached the depot, and Merle- 
bank, seeing that his friend bought a ticket to New 
York, returned to ‘^Glymont^’ easier in mind than he 
had been since the Baron’s arrival in Washington, and 
the Baron’s face wore a smile of extreme satisfaction 
as the train sped northward toward the great metropo- 
lis of the New World. 

Mr. Sinclair was sitting by Marguerite when Dr. 
Merlebank reached “Glymont,” and the poor girl was 
raving in the wildest delirium. In the delusion of her 
disordered brain she was once again a pupil in Miss 
Stockton’s school, or she was living over the glad hour 
in which she made her dehiit, and Jack was there, the 
grand hero of all her girlish dreams, and then the 
past would fade away like some beautiful, forgotten 
poem, and the present, with all its sorrow, would 
crowd upon her and she would cry out in the same old, 
piteous wail: 

^‘Oh, Jack, dear, dear Jack, it can not be true! You 
could not be so cruel to your unhappy little Margie!” 

Mr. Sinclair clinched his fists and ground his teeth 
in his indignation, muttering the most dreadful impre- 
cations against the heartless scoundrel who had 
wrought such havoc in the heart of his jewel. 

Dorothy stood beside the bed wringing her hands in 
mute distress, wdiile Miss Flaxham applied ice-cold 
sponges to the young girl’s brow, and vainly tried to 
soothe her to quietness. 

When Jack Dumbarton left ^^Glymont” he went at 
once to Mr. Deswald’s office, and in as few words as 
possible told him all that had happened, ending by 
giving Mr. Deswald the mysterious letter to read. 

For a few minutes the lawyer was silent; it was as 
though some one had dealt him a dreadful blow. 

The letter dropped from his hands as he exclaimed: 

^Mack, my dear boy, for God’s sake tell me what 
it all means!” 

Doubt, pain, astonishment, and fear were expressed 
in the cry, and in the very depth of his grief and 
despair Jack laid his head on the table and sobbed 
like a child. 


60 


The inflection of doubt in the voice of his old friend 
hurt Jack worse than all the accusations brought 
against him by Mr. Sinclair had done. 

They were all against him, he felt, and, Avorse still. 
Marguerite Avas ill, perhaps unto death, and AAmuld die 
believing him guilty of the most cruel crime eA^er com- 
mitted. 

^^Mr. Deswald,^’ he said, struggling to keep back the 
emotion he felt, ‘T swear to yon I am innocent of this 
awful charge, but you see evidence is strongly against 
me; even I could almost SAvear that I Avrote that letter, 
but as God is my judge I never saAV the letter until Mr. 
Sinclair placed it in my hands.’’ 

Mr. Deswald laid his hand on the boAA^ed head of the 
young man. 

^Mack, my boy,” he said, ^^you have never in the 
smallest degree deceived me. Ea^cii in face of the eAU- 
dence against you I am forced to belieA^e your Avords. 
You have been the Aictini of a foul plot. Jack, a foul 
plot, and as your friend, and as your old father’s friend, 
I mean to track the perpetrator to the earth and make 
him acknoAvledge his crime.” 

Jack thanked Mr. DesAvald warmly, and gathering 
up the letter Avhich had been such an instrument of 
torture to him and Marguerite, he left the office. Walk- 
ing SAviftly up Pennsylvania avenue he met Dr. ^lerle- 
bank returning from the depot. The Doctor did not at 
first recognize him, but Avhen Jack approached him and 
asked after ^larguerite he smiled a sinister smile, and 
said with just the faintest inflection of sarcasm — 

^^Keally, Mr. Dumbarton, I think you are the last to 
care how Miss Courtney is, but if it will gratify you to 
know the result of your last piece of fiendish Avork, I 
may as well say I have not the slightest hope of her re- 
covery. If you intend to become a professional lady- 
killer allow me to say von haA^e started in a verA^ suc- 
cessful manner. I’ll bid you good morning, sir.” He 
raised his hat, and the next moment was lost to sight 
in the hurrying croAvd that usually throngs this busy 
thoroughfare, and Jack stood staring after him, as 
mute as the Goddess of Peace smiling doAvn from the 
monument before him. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


DOKOTHY TAKES A MOONLIGHT WALK. 

MISS MEKLEBANK took great interest in the little 
waif who had been thrust upon the hospitality of ‘‘Gly- 
mont/^ and since Marguerite’s illness had volunteered 
to go for a walk with the child each morning, and she 
had become so attached to the little one that she had 
suggested to Mr. Sinclair that he adopt her after their 
marriage. 

It was on one of these morning walks shortly after 
the Baron’s departure that Dorothy, crossing the lawn 
with little Lillian, met Joshua, the errand boy. With- 
out a word he thrust a note into her hand and passed 
on, he thought, unobserved, but old Peter, who ap- 
peared to be omnipresent as far as ^^Glymont” was con- 
cerned, had been a witness to the little scene, and forth- 
with resolved that he would tell ^^Marse Jack” the very 
first time the opportunity presented itself. 

Dorothy walked on a few paces further and fiung 
herself into a hammock with the perfect abandon which 
characterized all her movements, and tossing her wide 
sim-hat to the child on the grass, she broke the seal of 
the letter. Her pretty face grew a trifle paler, 
and an expression of cringing fear lurked in the depth 
of her matchless eyes as she read the closely written 
lines. 

What had this beautiful young girl, the daughter of 
Dr. Jeremiah Merlebank, and the affianced wife of 
James Sinclair, the millionaire, to fear? 

Perhaps a glance over her shoulder will give us some 
idea of what it is she has to fear. 


62 


is-s D orotliy M erleban k : 

“Two yesiYs ago to-day I met you at Champs Ely sees, 
I'aris, a lid for the sum of one thousand dollars agreed 
to leave you uumolested for a year. Before the year 
was out you had escaped my vigilauce, and it was only 
a short time ago that I learned you were at ^Glyniont,’ 
the home of Mr. Sinclair, the millionaire. The little 
memento of affection you so kindly left me upon your 
departure from Paris I forwarded you a short time ago, 
and I presume you received it. I have come now for 
more money, and furthermore I mean to have it. I un- 
derstand you are soon to marry the millionaire. If jou 
have no money of your own you may be willing to get 
a little advance from him; otlierwise I shall apply to 
the gentleman in person, though I really prefer to re- 
ceive everything from the sweet hands of your own fair 
self. I shall be at the lake this evening at ten o’clock. 
Meet me there to make any further arrangements. I 
Avill not sign my name to this, as I know. Miss Dorothy, 
you are too true to your friends to forget them in so 
short a time as two years. Do not fail me.” 

Dorothy tore the letter in shreds, and tossing it 
above her head watched the white bits fall like so 
many mammoth snowflakes over little Lillian’s golden 
curls and drop to the ground to be blown hither and 
thither by the wanton winds. 

Old Peter, an hour later, clearing off the lawn, had 
every tiniest fragment of the note stored carefully 
away in a small box, awaiting the chance to deliver it 
to Marse Jack. 

That nio'ht Dorothy remained in the drawing-room 
with Mr. Sinclair and her father until ten o’clock, when 
she comnlained of a slight headache, and the Doctor 
thought it best for her to retire. 

M'ith the sweetest of kisses to her father and a softly 
murmured good night to Mr. Sinclair she left the room, 
and escaping by a side entrance, ran as fast as her feet 
could carry her to the place appointed by her anony- 
mous correspondent for a meeting. 

She thought herself entirely free from observation 
as she sped along the path, bordered by a thick growth 


(>3 


of box and osage orange, but in this she was vastly mis- 
taken. 

With the remarkable suspicion inherent in his race, 
the old butler had scented mischief from the first day 
of Dorothy Meriebank’s arrival at ‘‘Glyniont,’’ and 
from that time forth he kept a strict watch over every 
one in the slightest way connected with the shrewd 
little Doctor. 

Dorothy seated herself on one of the rustic seats. 
Peter crouched on the ground behind one of the osage 
orange trees, and very soon his vigilance was rewarded 
by the approach of a young man, tall, handsome, and 
— it was all Peter could do to repress. his usual cry, 
‘^Bress de Lawd,^’ and under his breath he muttered, 
^‘Oh, bress de Lawd, is dese yere ole eyes ’ceivin^ me 
now?’’ 

Just what passed between the two old Peter kept to 
himself, too loyal to the dear friend he loved and hon- 
ored to breathe one word against his name, and yet 
hurt bevond measure at what he saw, leaving no room 
for doubt in his mind as to the true state of affairs. 

As soon as Dr. Merlebank found himself alone with 
Mr. Sinclair he drew his chair up near the old man as 
a sort of preliminary to what he had to say. 

It proved a harder task than he at first thought 
it would be, this proposal for the hand of the dying 
granddaughter, but it seemed as if the old man, di- 
vining his intentions, meant to pave the way for him 
when he said, as Dorothy left the room : 

^^Beally, Merlebank, I feel as though I owe you a 
great deal when I remember all you have done for my 
happiness. Your precious little daughter has come 
into my life like a stray beam of sunshine to gladden 
my declining years, and I feel very grateful to you 
for so readily granting ^mur consent to this union of 
May and December.” 

^Jlon’t mention it, Mr. Sinclair; don’t mention it. 
I am gratified to know that it has been in my power 
to advance your happiness. However, as you say you 
feel grateful to me, I wish to reply tliat 11011 have it 
in your power to fully liquidate any indebtedness you 
may feel in that respect.” 


64 


^^Ah, that is fortunate, Merlebaiik; only mention 
what it is I can do for yon, and I assure you it shall 
be accomplished with the least possible delay/’ 

^AVell, Mr. Sinclair,” said the Doctor, ^‘though it 
may seem rather an inopportune time to urge such a 
suit, I have come to you this evening for the especial 
purpose of asking your granddaughter’s hand in mar- 
riage.” The Doctor paused, and as Mr. Sinclair said 
no word he continued: ^^Of course, I am aware that 
Miss Courtney will one da}^ be a great heiress, but 
this, Mr. Sinclair, is rather a source of regret to me 
than otherwise, as my own fortune is ample to keep 
my wife, should she become such, in the best of cir- 
cumstances. Miss Courtney is now in a critical con- 
dition, from which it is more than probable she will 
never recover, but I feel that some superhuman effort 
must be exercised for her recovery, and to know that 
she would one day be 1113^ own would be the greatest 
incentive I could hav.e to this end. Oh, Mr. Sinclair, 
keep your gold, but give me Marguerite, and I swear 
that her life shall be made one endless song of happi- 
ness.” 

The Doctor paused in his pleadings, and Mr. Sin- 
clair, dumfounded at this sudden outburst, said, sor- 
rowfully : 

^‘My dear friend, I know full well how hard my 
answer to this suit must be for 3"ou to bear, and ^^ou 
have my deepest sj^mpathj". I can not give my con- 
sent to your proposal, as Miss Courtney is already be- 
trothed to our mutual friend, Baron Yon Floville.” 

^^Damn the scoundrel!” exclaimed the Doctor, spring- 
ing to his feet, ^^so this is the trick he pla3^ed me!” 

Mr. Sinclair had also risen. 

do not understand,” he said, staring at the phy- 
sician, as though he would probe his veiw soul with 
his scintillating blue eyes. 

The words had scarcely escaped Merlebank’s lips 
ere he repented of them. Striding across the floor for 
a few minutes, he did not speak, and when he did he 
simply said: ‘T beg pardon, Mr. Sinclair, for allowing 
ni}^ passion to overcome me as it did, but you under- 


65 


stand that it goes pretty hard with a man when he 
has staked his whole happiness upon a thing to know 
that some one else has just stepped in and carried 
off the prize.’’ 

^‘Yes, yes,” said the old man; understand it all. 
God help us who are so powerless to control our affec- 
tion.” 

The two exchanged good nights, and each retired 
to his own apartment, while the poor, unconscious sub- 
ject of their thoughts tossed in her wild delirium, 
and pleaded for the love so ruthlessly driven out 
of her life, and begged for death rather than loss of 
faith in the adored one Avho had become a part of life 
itself for her. 

When the crafty little Doctor laid his head on his 
pillow it was not to sleep, but to plot some scheme 
by which he might outwit the Baron, and still main- 
tain his position in the old man’s favor. In the first 
place, he knew that Von Floville was a married man 
already, and, furthermore, he knew that a revelation 
of this fact by him would at once blast any hope the 
Baron might entertain of ever winning the heiress, but 
such a revelation would also be the death-blow to his 
own hopes, since the Baron also knew a few things of 
which the public was not yet aware. ^‘Greek had met 
Greek,” and to all appearances had “begun the tug 
of war.” 

Several hours passed before the Doctor, with a satis- 
fied smile, closed his eyes and resigned mind and body 
alike to the beneficent influence of sleep. 

The little ormulu clock on the mantel of Miss Doro- 
thy’s room chimed out the hour of three and still that 
young lady had not slept. Springing out of bed, she 
hastily donned a dressing-gown, and by the dim light 
of a small taper glided down the long hall to Miss 
Flaxham’s room. Miss Flaxham had just been re- 
lieved by Miss Caswell in the sick room, and was now 
before her mirror, en dishahille, preparing to retire. 
The corkscrew curls which had so worried Mr. Sinclair 
and played such an important part in the every-day 

3 


66 


make-up of the trained nurse, were lying in a tumbled 
mass on the dressing-case, and over Miss Flaxham’s 
shoulders fell a rippling mass of rich brown hair that 
a princess might liave been proud to call her own. The 
sallow complexion that in her professional life made 
her look old and ugly had given place to the combined 
tints of perfect health and the bloom of youth, and it 
required but a single glance to convince one that the 
trained nurse was really a superb woman, gifted with 
more than the ordinary amount of personal beauty. 

At the sound of Dorothy’s light step on the threshold 
she wheeled suddenly around, facing the door, and for 
a moment the color died out of her face, and she stood 
like some beautiful marble statue in the subdued light 
of a single incandescent lamp. 

^AYhy, Doll, what is the matter?” she asked in a 
muffled whisper, laying her hand on Dorothy’s rumpled 
hair, and looking inquiringly into the frightened eyesi 
and pale face. 

Dorothy dropped her head upon the elder woman’s 
shoulder and burst into tears as she sobbed: 

^^Oh, ’Delle, he has found me out after all my plan- 
ning, and only to-night he declared that he must have 
a thousand dollars at once or he would expose every- 
thing.” 

Miss Flaxham drew back a step. 

^Aly dear Dolly, this is horrible, horrible, and just 
at a time when we felt so secure! What are we to 
do?” 

^^Oh, ’Delle, I wish I had died before I ever saw his 
hateful face! There is nothing to do but to give up my 
beautiful necklace to the heartless wretch. I know 
it is worth five times that amount, but it will have ta 
go. Just think of it! My lovely diamond necklace^ 
Mr. Sinclair’s first gift to me, to go to that unprinci- 
pled wretch, to be squandered in his vile dissipa- 
tion!” 

^^Better that than exposure, my dear,” said Miss 
Flaxham; “but I think I can suggest something bet- 
ter than giving him the necklace. Pawn it, my dear, 
and then, once you are married, you can redeem it, and 


67 


Mr. i^iiiclair need never know it has been out of its 
velvet case.’’ 

bright smile broke throngh the tears on Doro- 
thy’s face at this suggestion. She threw her arms 
around Miss Flaxham’s neck and said: 

^‘You dear, comforting ’Delle, Avhat should I do with- 
out your advice. You always know what to do.” 

^Y^ever mind about thanking me,” said Miss Flax- 
ham; ‘\go to bed now, you need rest and so do I.” 

Dorothy kissed her tenderly and left the room; half 
an hour later both of them were sleeping peacefully. 

Promptly at nine o’clock the following morning Dor- 
othy entered the dining-room, looking as radiant and 
fresh in her pink morning gown as the carnations she 
wore. Xo one would have thought for a moment that 
she had spent a sleepless night, harassed by such a 
fearful, momentous problem as only Miss Flaxham 
had been able to solve. 

Dr. Merlebank was late ‘for breakfast, and when he 
at last appeared in the dining-room he Avas in a A^ery 
thoughtful mood, and his face Avore a A^ery serious ex- 
pression, but this Avas lost on Mr. Sinclair, who smiled 
approvingly Avhile Dorothy chattered through the en- 
tire hour as if no serious thought had ever entered her 
pretty, fluffy head, and really it seemed as though the 
old man’s infatuation for the Doctor’s daughter had 
driven all thought of poor little Marguerite from his 
mind. 

Breakfast oA^er, Dr. Merlebank AA^ent at once to his 
patient and Dorothy accompanied Mr. Sinclair on his 
morning walk. 

Upon their return she requested the use of the ^^Gly- 
mont” carriage for the rest of the morning, and, bloAV- 
ing a kiss from the tips of her Angers to her fiance, 
vanished up the stairs to prepare for her drive. 

Miss Flaxham Avatched the carriage until it passed 
outside the massive iron gates, then turned with a 
satisfied smile to the sick bed. She alone kneAA" what 
this shopping tour of Miss Merlebank’s meant. 

The Doctor did not look up as she approached the 
bedside, but kept his eyes fixed upon the thermome- 


68 


ter he held in the sick girPs mouth. His brows tv ere 
drawn in a perplexed frown as he watched the tiny 
thread of mercury mount higher and higher until it 
marked her temperature at 106^ degrees. 

^‘Prepare an ice-cold bath immediately, Miss Flax- 
ham, and call Miss Caswell to assist you in plunging 
Miss Courtney into it. She can not possibly stand 
another day of this fiery heat.’^ 

Poor Marguerite! How she shuddered as the cold 
water closed over her burning flesh. Her blue eyes 
fluttered open in all their unconscious amazement, 
then closed wearily as she murmured, ‘^Oh, Jack, it is 
so dark, so dark and cold.’^ 

Dr. Merlebank ground his teeth as he listened and 
mentally swore that, come what might. Jack Dum- 
barton had looked his last upon Marguerite Courtney. 

After seeing that everything had been properly car- 
ried out and his patient w^as once more comfortably 
replaced in bed, he administered a sleeping draught, 
and, leaving Miss Flaxham on duty, went in search of 
Mr. Sinclair, whom he wished to inform of Margue- 
rite’s real condition. 

The old man was almost beside himself with grief 
when he learned that without an immediate change 
his granddaughter could not live. 

^‘Science can suggest nothing more,” said the Doc- 
tor, and there were tears of genuine grief in his eyes 
as he uttered the words. 

However, the one thing needful was sleep, and for 
more than three hours Marguerite enjoyed unbroken 
slumber. Her temperature had dropped to 104 de- 
grees, and the Doctor had just started down the hall to 
impart the news of this favorable symptom to Mr. 
Sinclair, when a messenger arrived with a cablegram 
for the old gentleman, which proved to be from Von 
Floville, and stated that he would sail for America 
on Friday. 

Merlebank turned on his heels and retraced his 
steps. 

When the sun went down that night the promised 
bride of Baron Stanley Von Floville, clad in snowy 


69 


robes, with spotless lilies in her hands, was lying on a 
couch of white in the silent drawing-room, and the 
emblems of mourning swung from the door-knob at 
‘‘Glymont,’’ while the servants of the house crept 
through the darkened halls with noiseless footsteps 
and spoke to each other in muffled whispers. From 
the servants^ hall old Becky’s voice could be heard in 
the plaintive wail : ^^Oh, Lord, it can’t be true that pore, 
dear little Miss Margie is gone forever.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


A FAIR FORM LAID TO REST. 

THE news of Marguerite Courtney's death fell like 
a thunderbolt in society circles, where, during a brief 
period, she had reigned as acknowledged queen. The 
old lawyer, who had been like a father to her, was 
overcome with grief, and when this sad ending of his 
beautiful life dream reached Jack Dumbarton he fell 
to the floor unconscious. 

Mr. Deswald sprang into his buggy and drove to 
''Glymont" to offer, if possible, words of comfort to 
the "bereft old grandfather, but the task proved too 
great for him. As soon as his eyes fell on the hag- 
gard face of his friend he broke down and wept with 
him. 

During the days that intervened between the death 
and burial of the heiress Dr. Merlebank haunted the 
chamber in which she lay, like some weary, homeless 
spirit, partaking of neither food nor drink, until old 
I^eter declared his eyes would ^^bu'st from deir sockets 
if he didn't come out of dat awful spell of grievin'." 
But neither pleadings nor protestations would draw 
the Doctor from the room, and when at last the sor- 
rowung friends gathered around to perform the last 
sad rites over the beautiful dead, he sank into a chair 
near the wdiite casket which contained the idol of his 
heart and w^ept aloud. Dorothy waning her pretty 
hands in despair. This coming face to face with death 
w as a terror she had never before realized; the beauti- 
ful, snow^y lilies that drooped over the fair young 
form seemed fitting emblems of the purity of the girl 
w^ho slept beneath them, and the anchor of white 
immortelles but a mute reminder that her spotless soul 


71 


was anchored beyond the strife of a grasi)ing world 
and safe forever from the trials that beset this life. 
And yet how hard it was to forever hide that lovely 
face and hear no more that sweet young voice that 
only so short a time ago rang out in all its freshness 
and purity, as gladly and free as the song of the wild 
bird flitting over the tree-tops to its mountain eyrie. 
Oh, that some welcome voice, such as was heard b^^ 
Lazarus of old, would rouse her from that dreamless 
sleep and set her pulses beating to the glad tune of life 
again! How gladly would those who loved her wel- 
come the freed spirit back to its earthly cage. 

Slowly and solemnly the cortege wended its way 
down the long avenue to the Sinclair vault, and with 
sblenin ceremony Marguerite Courtney was laid to rest 
in the great marble sarcophagus long ago prepared 
to receive the mortal remains of the sorrowing old 
grandfather Avho was left to bemoan an irreparable 
loss. 

All was OA^er, the last sad rites performed, the Avaxen 
flowers heaped high over the still more Avaxen face, 
sorroAving friends turned aiva}^ Avith tears streaming 
doAvn their faces, the lieaAW iron doors SAvnng together 
Avith a creaking sound, and old Peter, the faithful 
friend and servant, stepped forAvard to lock the sacred 
portal. Dr. Merlebank arrested him. 

^Aly dear old friend,’^ he said,/^give me the privilege 
of once more gazing upon that dear, loved face. To- 
morroAv the sarcophagus Avill be sealed and oiir loved 
one be hidden from sight until the daAvn of the Eesur- 
rection morning. I must see her once more, but I Avill 
not detain you longer. I Avill see that the gates are 
locked and the key returned to you in a short time.” 

The key dropped into the Doctor’s outstretched 
hand and ^vith a great, tearless sob old Peter turned 
and retraced his steps up the broad avenue to the 
house, and the Doctor entered the damp vault 

An hour and a half Avent by, and the city gleamed 
like a city of gold in the light of the setting sun, still 
the Doctor did not return. Peter, feeling it his duty 
to look after his sorroAV-stricken friend, returned to 


the gloomy liouse of the dead, but found che door se- 
curely locked and the Doctor nowhere iu sight. 

When Peter again rea(*lied the house he found every 
one in a flutter of excitement. Dr. Merlebank had 
been suddenly called away, and the household, from 
Dorothy down to the least of the servants, was flutter- 
ing about making preparations for his departure, and 
in the flurry and bustle that followed Peter forgot all 
about the key of the vault; however, they found it the 
following morning, and after taking a last look at the 
flower-strewn casket, Peter stood beside his sorrowing 
master and saw the marble sarcophagus sealed, and 
all the fair loveliness it (‘ontained left to await the glad 
morning when the last trump shall sound and the 
elect shall come forth robed in the shining glory of 
immortality and wearing the crowns of God’s chosen 
saints to mingle forever with the angel band and join 
in the song of everlasting hallelujah. 

Her duties done. Miss, (kiswell soon left the house 
which had been the scene of so much sadness since her 
entrance to it, but Miss Flaxham, at the Doctor’s earn- 
est request, remained to watch over his daughter, and 
Mr. Sinclair was soon willing to admit that, aside from 
her profession. Miss Flaxham was a very pleasant 
woman. Mr. Sinclair now lavished all his love upon 
the woman who was to be his future wife, and Doro- 
thy could safely say she had not a wish uugratifled. 
Had she asked for half a dozen Miss FlaxhaiiLS to be 
invited to ‘‘(Tlymont^^ the invitation would have been 
issued immediately. 

But, iu spite of all their agreeable arrangements, 
life was no longer the same at ^‘(tlymont.^’ Old Becky 
wiped the tears from her eyes and said Miss ^largie 
had taken all the sunshine to Heaven with her, and the 
earth no longer held any brightness. In fact, every- 
thing had changed, until nothing seemed the same 
any more. 

Mr. Sinclair felt that he could not longer bear the 
gloom and desolation of the old home, and three days 
after the funeral he announced his intention of going 
abroad for a year, begging Dorothy to consent to an 


73 


immediate marriage, that she might accompany him 
on his travels. Dorothy looked in blank dismay at 
Miss Flaxham, and, reading nothing but a reflection 
of her own dread and fear on that lady’s face, promised 
Mr. Sinclair she would think about it and ask her 
father’s advice. 

To be honest as regards Miss Merlebank, she was in 
no wise anxious to hasten her marriage with the mil- 
lionaire, who had already intimated that should any- 
thing occur before it was solemnized, his aftianced wife 
would still inherit the bulk of his fortune, though Mr. 
Deswald insisted that drawing up a will was by no 
means necessary so long as Mr. Sinclair kept his pres- 
ent good health. What the lawyer hoped to gain by 
deferring this important act no one was able to under- 
stand, Dorothy least of all, and Mr. Sinclair raised not 
the slightest objection to being guided b}^ his friend’s 
discretion. Perhaps it would be well to add that Mr. 
Deswald had never yet made a mistake in his manage- 
ment of the millionaire’s affairs. 

As for Dr. Merlebank, not a single word had been 
heard from him since he left ^‘Glymont,” and no one 
knew the slightest thing about his whereabouts, unless 
Miss Flaxham could be depended upon, and she posi- 
tively affirmed that he Avas in New York, aAvaiting the 
arrival of his sister from London, and, of course, no one 
thought there was anything strange in the fact that 
Dr. ^lerlebank’s sister should sail on the same vessel 
as did Baron Von Floville. 

^leanwhile Jack Dninbarton had Avon his laurels in 
the great Pension Fraud case and Avas made famous 
by the cleverness he displayed in detecting the fraud, 
every one acknowledging that his Avork could not have 
been excelled by the most experienced member of the 
Washington bar. Jack took it all calmly, and even a 
passing stranger could liaA^e told that his smiles Avere 
forced when he received the congratulations that 
poured in upon him, and instead of feeling proud of his 
first victory his mind reverted to that marble sarcoph- 
agus, back in the damp vault at ^^Glymont,” Avherein 
all his glad hopes were hidden forever from sight, and 


74 


the star of liis life eternally set in a pair of blue eyes 
that would Aveleome him with their joyous light no 
more. 

However, Jack soon found pretty iiiucdi the same 
fate awaiting him that every man in public life finds. 
People soon began to notice the sad exi)ression that 
never left his eyes, and later the skeleton was dragged 
out of his closet, and all society knew that Marguerite 
Courtney died of a broken heart because a married 
man had won her love and then flung it aside. Some of 
his former friends went so far as to ask why he did not 
introduce the pretty wife for whom he had been willing 
to throw over a millionaire’s granddaughter. Others 
intimated that he had cast his child upon the charity 
of the house he had wrecked. 

Mr. Deswald only shook his head when he heard 
these dreadful accusations, and lajdng his hand on 
Jack’s shoulder would say: ‘‘Don’t worry, my boy; 
these can only wound jmu for a time, and right and 
truth will triumph at last for every soul who trusts 
(tod’s divine power and immutable justice.” 

Xo father could have been truer to a son than this 
honored old man was to Jack, and perhaps this alone 
kept him from failing under the great burden that had 
fallen upon him. 

Never once had the young man attempted to enter 
the gates of “Glymont” since he was so rudely ordered 
away from there, and no one ever knew that the beau 
tiful anchor of white hnmortelles which rested over her 
bosom had been placed there by his order, and the 
words “My Darling,” on the tiny slip of paper that flut- 
tered over the blossoms, had been penciled by his hand. 

It was several days after Marguerite’s funeral before 
Jack learned of Dr. Merlebank’s departure, but as soon 
as he did so he hired a cab and drove out in the direc- 
tion of “Glymont,” where he hoped to meet old Peter 
and learn the particulars of the case. An additional 
quarter added to the cabman’s fee was all that was 
necessary to induce him to bear the message, request- 
ing tlm old man to meet Jack outside the gates, to 
which Peter joyfully resnonded. 

“ ’Deed, Marse Jack, T’s glad to see you,” he said, ex- 


tending liis wrinkled brown hand to the young man; 
‘‘but, oh, Marse Jack, home ain^t home no more since 
Miss Margie left us.’’ 

With a mighty elfort Jack overcame his emotion and 
said: “Ah, Peter, I know that quite well, but we will 
not discuss this subject which is so sad to both of us. 
I came here to ask you some questions, and when I say 
that I want j^ou to answer me carefully you will under- 
stand that much depends upon what you say.” 

“Go on, Marse Jack. De truf, de whoie truf, an’ 
nothin’ but de truf, am old Peter’s way of telling any- 
thing to you.” 

“Very well, Peter. Now, in the first place, was a 
child, a babv, left at ‘Glymont’ a few w^eeks ago?” 

“Yes, Marse Jack; an’ ’sensin’ me for ’spressin’ my 
opinion, dey ain’t been no sweeter baby inside dem 
walls sence Miss Margie was a baby herself.” 

“And who takes care of this child?” 

“My ole ’ooman, dat’s who; an’ if any of dem furrin 
wimmiu Vv as to put on a’rs about it she’d fight lak a 
tagger, dat she -would.” 

“Do either of these ladies appear to be attached to 
the child?” 

“ ’Sense me, Marse Jack, you mean — ” 

Jack couched his question in plhin terms, “Do either 
of these ladies seem to feel any love for the child, or 
act as though they had ever seen it before it arrived 
at ‘Glymont’?” 

“’Deed, Marse Jack, dey don’t look at it, ’less ’tis 
Miss Dorothy takes it wid her to walk some mornings.” 
“Does the little one in any way resemble me?” 

“Good Lawd, no, Marse Jack. What is you savin’? 
Your ha’r an’ eyes is black as ink, an’ dat little baby 
got ha’r lak de sunshine an’ eyes for de worl’ lak Miss 
Margie’s, blue as de vi’lets.” 

“Now, Peter, in regard to Dr. ^lerlebank. When 
did he leave ‘Glymont’?” 

“De lef’ inside of two hours after de funeral.” 

“Did he carry any baggage?” 

“He carried a gray telescope and a little grip.” 

“Is that all?” 

“As fur as I knows, Marse Jack; but railly, young 


7G 


Marse, if you’ll jist tell me wliat you’re driviii’ at 1 
think we’ll git to the p’nt sooner.” 

^^Never mind about getting to the point, Peter; I 
have reasons of my own for asking these questions, 
and I must enjoin you to keep every word I have said 
a profound secret.” 

“I’ll never peach, Marse Jack, so help me Gawd.” 

“Is there any truth in the report that Mr. Sinclair 
is going to adopt the little waif?” 

“Not as I knows on, Marse Jack; but it do seem that 
ole jMarse might be ’speeded to do mos’ anything so 
long as he’s made up his mind to marry that bushy- 
headed little furrin gal, an’ ’come son-in-law to de fat 
little Doctor, dough I do say as how he’s much to be 
’ferred to de daughter an’ de trained nuss what she 
’sociates wid.” 

While Peter had been going on with this palaver. 
Jack had buried his fa(‘e in his hands and was think- 
ing deeply. What was the sequel to all of these com- 
plications? 

“Dere’s one thing, Marse Jack, I’d like to tell you,” 
said Peter, rather dubiously. 

“Very well, Peter, let me hear it. It may throw some 
light on the mysterv whicli surrounds everything.” 

“De Doctor was in dove with Miss Margie hisself.” 

Jack sprang to his feet. 

“Peter, what is this you are telling me?” 

“De gospel truf, Marse Jack, he wuz; an’ after de fu- 
neral he went back to de vault an’ staid dere more’n 
an hour.” 

“How do you know this, Peter?” 

“Bekase I let him have de key, Marse Jack; an’ I 
knows, for I watched him go in.” 

“Peter, I fear you have made a great mistake,” said 
Jack, gravely; “do not tell this to any one else until I 
give you nermission.” 

“But, ^larse Jack, I know he loved her, ’cause I 
heard him tell niv ole Marse he did, an’ he axed Marse 
Sinclair to give his consent for dem to git married.” 

“How long ago was this?” 

“De very night ’fore Miss Margie died.” 


77 


am glad you told me tliis/^ said Jack. there 
anything more?’’ 

“Dere’s a letter, Marse Jack, but you’ll ’scuse me if 
I says I thought you wrote it.” 

letter! To whom? What do you mean, Peter?” 

^‘Well, Marse Jack, it’s dis; one mornin’ I saw Joshua 
meet de Doctor’s daughter on de lawn an’ slip a note in 
her han’, kinder onconcerned like, an’ sez I to myself 
’dat note’ll b’ar watchin’,’ an’ de fust thing I knowed 
I saw de little scraps of it flyin’ all over de lawn, an’ 
Miss Dorothy a-leadin’ de baby towards de house. I 
walked myself straight down dere an’ gathered up de 
last piece of it an’ put it away to han’ you when de 
chance presented itself, but after I seed you a-talkin’ 
to her at de lake dat night I never thought nothin’ 
more about it. Howsomdever, here’s de pieces I 
saved.” 

^^And you saw me talking to Miss Merlebank at the 
lake that night?” interrogated Jack. 

“ ’Sense me fur tellin’ you of it, Marse Jack.” 

^^That is all right, Peter; you did the best thing to 
tell me of it. Now I must leave you, my friend, and it 
may be some time before I see you again. Keep to 
yourself all vou have told me, and if anything unusual 
occurs while I am away report it at your earliest op- 
portunity to Mr. Deswald.” Jack slipped a dollar in 
the darkv^s hand and walked back to the cab, leaving 
old Peter bowing and calling after him: 

“Thankee, Marse, thankee; you never forgitf^ dat de 
old man lak his tobacco.” 


CHAPTER X. 


BARON VON FLOVILLE’S RETURN. 

WHEN Yon Floville left Washington he was not in 
the least certain what course he would pursue in re- 
gard to the business which called him to Europe. 
Strolling through the custom house in New York on 
the morning of his departure he saw his one small 
trunk thrown open and the contents examined. As 
far as this went the Baron had nothing to fear, for the 
trunk contained nothing but a veiy meagre supply of 
clothing, considering that a gentleman of rank was the 
owner of it. However, the Baron kept his eye on the 
officer who examined each piece of baggage as it came 
in, until all v/as done and the porters began loading 
the trucks that were to convey the baggage to the 
steamer. Then he stepped up to the officer who had 
examined his own trunk, and doffing his hat he asked: 

^^Do I address Mr. William Stuyvesant?’’ 

^^At your service, sir,^’ replied the officer, bowing be- 
fore the distinguished looking stranger in the most im- 
pressive manner. 

^Ts it possible that you have forgotten me. Will?’’ 
have not the honor, sir,” replied the officer. 

^^You do not remember vour old friend, Stanlev Yon 
Floville?” 

A pleasant smile illumined the officer’s features as 
he exclaimed: 

‘Ts it possible that I see my old friend Stanley once 
more?” 

^^Yes, YTlliam, and I assure you I am glad to meet 
you under such vastly different circumstances.” 

“Ah, Stanley, old fellow, how did you manage it?” 

“That matters little,” replied the Baron. “At any 


79 


rate I am here, extremely alive and still a Baron; how- 
ever, 1 am not quite the wealthy dog I once was, but 
upon my return from Europe I hope to regain my old 
standing in that respect/’ 

Both men laughed heartily, and the Baron winked 
significantly as he shook his friend’s hand and said: 
"‘Look out for my baggage when I return, old fellow.” 

The ofticer in turn winked at the Baron and the two 
separated. 

Almost a month had gone by since the above conver- 
sation. Huge trunks were being tumbled into the cus- 
tom house in New York like so many rubber balls, and 
busy officials were tossing handsome dresses and snowy 
linen about in them as though they were so much raw 
cotton. William Stuyvesant, busy in the discharge of 
his duty, unlocked one great iron-bound trunk, and the 
first thing that caught his eye was a crisp fifty-dollar 
note to which was pinned a slip of paper. The paper 
was not folded and he read: 

""Accept this and go no further.” 

Thrusting the money and note into his pocket he 
closed the trunk, locked it securely, and was about to 
pass on to the next when he raised his eyes and saw 
before him Stanley Von Floville. 

A sigh of extreme relief broke from the Baron’s lips 
as he saw the key withdrawn from the lock, and with 
a bow of thanks to his friend he passed out of the cus- 
tom house, delivered his checks to a drayman with the 
order, ""To the "Waldorf,’ ” and five minutes later he 
had disappeared in the passing throng. 

I^pon reaching the hotel the drayman remarked that 
the big iron-bound trunk seemed powerful heavy to 
liave nothing in it but a gentleman’s clothes. 

""It really contains no clothes at all,” said the Baron, 
""thoua’h I cheated the custom house officials into think- 
ing it did. The truth is, my good fellow, I am a travel- 
ing physician, and that trunk is chuck full of cancers, 
lumors, deformed limbs and pieces of skull bones, 
taken from injured patients whom I have cured on my 
various travels. Oh, you need not hold your nose: they 
are all preserved in alcohol and really have no odor to 


80 


them. My wife often places the jars on her parlor 
mantel for her friends to look at when they call. She 
is quite proud of my professional ability, but to be hon- 
est I don’t like the things. One feels so gruesome to 
have them around. What will you charge, my friend, 
to take that box ten miles outside the city limits and 
bury it?” 

‘‘That- would be a tiresome job,” said the man. 

“What is your price?” asked the Baron. 

“Well, mister, gimme ten dollars and I’ll do it.” 

Von Floville gave him a ten-dollar note and then 
added fifteen dollars in gold. 

“Keep what 3^011 know to yourself, my friend. Doc- 
tors think it an unpardonable sin to destroy such valu- 
able proofs of the advancement of science in surgery. 
A year from now if I continue to practice I’ll have more 
of those cancers than I know what to do with, and my 
wife will never know but they are the same ones she 
has so often displayed on her parlor mantel.” 

The dravman was profuse in his thanks to the liberal 
Doctor, and after safely depositing his newly acquired 
wealth in an inside pocket he once more shouldered 
the heavy trunk and returned it to the dra^". 

He had not driven more than half a block from the 
hotel when an old gentleman, bent Avith age, his hoar^" 
locks hanging like a wreath of snow OA^er a furroAved 
broAv, hobbled across the street and begged for a ride. 

At another time the drayman would haA^e cracked 
the whip in his face and driven on, but that twenty-fiA^e 
dollars had put him at peace with the world, and AAdth 
a pleasant smile he dreAA^ up his horse and inAuted the 
old gentleman to a seat beside him. 

“Be you a-goin’ fur?” asked the old man. 

“Well, I calculate about ten miles,” was the ready 
repl.v. 

“Ten miles,” said the old man; “well noAA-, that do be 
fortunate, if only you’ll be so good as to let me ride. 
My place is just that fur out in this direction, an’ if 
you be a-Avantin’ a place to stay all night you can sheer 
my room. ’Taint much to offer a stranger, but I’A^e got 
a good, comfortable bed.” 

The dra^^man Avas glad to accept the proffered hos- 


81 


pitality, and he soon fell into a pleasant conversation 
with the old man, who was very communicative. 

^^Be you a-carryin’ that trunk up to the quality that^s 
stoppin^ for the summer at Sadler’s Farm?’’ 

‘^Bless ye, no,” replied the drayman. ^^That trunk 
is chuck full of cancers and dead bones, cut off of living 
people.” 

^^And what be you a-goin’ to do with ’em?” 

^AVhy, they b’long to some furrin doctor that just 
come across the ocean to-day, and he is payin’ me well 
to take ’em out to the country and bury ’em.” 

The old man looked mystified, and the conversation 
drifted on to other subjects. At the end of the jour- 
ney the old man selected a spot in which to bury the 
cast-off evidences of the great doctor’s skill. 

^^’Spose I just dump the jars out and keep the 
trunk,” suggested the dra^^man; ^dt’s a fine one, worth 
every cent of twenty dollars, bought new.” 

‘‘I wouldn’t do it,” said the old man, “you might 
catch the cholera or the leaprosy, then what good 
would the trunk be unless it was to bury you in?” 

To this the drayman agreed, and by sundown the 
heavy trunk with its gruesome contents was hidden 
from sight under three feet of red clay, and the dray- 
man had decided that he Avould return to New York 
instead of spending the night with his new friend. 

As soon as Baron Von Floville saw the trunk safely 
deposited in the wagon he began to make preparations 
for the continuation of his journey. He congratulated 
himself over and over again upon getting rid of the big 
trunk so successful!}^, and it never entered his mind 
that the drayman might have curiosity enough to open 
it and take a peep at the contents. 

The following morning before five o’clock he was on 
his way to Washington, and just as Mr. Sinclair and 
Dorothy were seating themselves at the lunch-table 
Peter opened the dining-room door and announced — 

“Baron Von Floville.” 

“Show him in at once,” said Mr. Sinclair. Doro- 
thy’s face flushed a vivid crimson, then blanched to a 
deathly white. 


82 


Hurrieclly rising from the table, she murmured, ^‘Ex- 
cuse me,’^ and vanished through the outer door just 
as the Baron entered the inner one. 

Mr. Sinclair instructed Peter to follow her and as- 
certain the cause of her sudden leaving. 

^‘Say to Mr. Sinclair that I felt one of my dreadful 
headaches coming on, and not wishing to cause a 
scene by fainting before the Baron I thought best to 
leave while I felt able.’^ 

Her deathly pallor thorough^ corroborated this 
statement, and old Peter was all sympathy for the 
pretty young girl. 

Yon Floville had yet to learn of Marguerite's death, 
and it is needless to add that he was ill-prepared for 
the dreadful news that awaited him, though we un- 
derstand that no tender sentiment had ever existed 
in his heart for anything save her money. 

Rushing to Miss Flaxham^s room as soon as Peter 
was out of sight, Dorothy flung herself down on a 
couch and bursting into tears she sobbed out : 

‘^Oh! ’Delle, what shall I do? Yon Floville is here 
again, and Mr. Sinclair will be sure to invite him to 
stay several days.” 

^‘That will not matter, dear. Headaches often last 
for several days or a week and you can remain in your 
room,” said Miss Flaxham in her usual bland way. 

^^But remember, ^Delle, if I am not at the lake by 
nine o’clock to-night that other wretch will present 
liimself at the front door, and if I refuse to see him he 
will call for Mr. Sinclair.’’ 

^‘Oh, never fear. I’ll manage so you can get out for 
an hour. Corkscrew curls and broAvn paste do Avon- 
ders in changing faces, and our Avorthy friend, the 
Baron, is no wiser than some other people. I dare 
say he will Avish to know the particulars of Miss Court- 
ney’s death, and who should be more competent to re- 
late them than the nurse Avho stood by her to the last 
moment.” Dorothy’s face brightened. 

’Delle, you are a genius,” she said, throAving her 
arms around the nurse’s neck and kissing her again 
and again; ^^and one thing sure, AAdien I am the mil- 


83 


lionare’s wife you shall fare sumptuously if every one 
else starves/’ 

^‘Don’t go to extremes, dear,” said the nurse, patting 
the young girl lovingly on the head. ^^Go to your 
room now and demand perfect quiet until I come to 
you.” 

Without a word Dorothy obeyed, and the imperious 
woman resumed her embroidery, with just the faintest 
look of fear lurking in her matchless eyes. What if 
Yon Floville should recognize her? Ah, well, she had 
defied others to do so, and Avould defy him also. 

Fate played into her hands that night, for just as the 
hands of the clock pointed to a quarter of nine Peter 
rapped on her door with the message that Mr. Sinclair 
wished her to join himself and the Baron in the draw- 
ing-room for an hour. 

Miss Flaxham desired Peter to say to Mr. Sinclair 
that she was at that moment preparing a hot lemonade 
for Miss Merlebank, but would join them in ten min- 
utes. 

As soon as the butler was out of sight she sped down 
the hall to Dorothy’s room, and after seeing that young 
lady safely out of the house she went at once to the 
drawing-room, and true to her prophecy of a few hours 
before she had been sent for to give a detailed account 
of Marguerite’s last illness and death. 

^^And so it was that scoundrel Dumbarton who broke 
her heart, and was after all her murderer,” said the 
Baron. 

“He appears to have been indirectly the cause of her 
death,” replied the nurse, “as she was never conscious 
again after receiving the fatal letter, which contained 
a full confession of his baseness.” 

“Yes, and by Pleaven,” exclaimed the Baron, “I’ll 
shoot him down as I would a dog if he ever shows his 
cowardly face to me again! Oh, Lord, how long wilt 
thou suffer the unjust to triumph over the innocent, 
and wreck the homes of thy faithful servants?” 

Miss Flaxliam turned her face away to hide the smile 
she could not suppress at this cleverly pious fraud, 
while Mr. Sinclair, easily wrought up in his nervous 


84 


condition, bowed his head on his hands and wept 
softly. 

^^Ah, my friend,’^ said Von Floville, pardon me for 
dwelling so long on this subject, which must be an ex- 
ceedingly painful one to you. I am deeply distressed 
over having caused the revival of such sadness in your 
heart. It is all so new and strange to me that I have 
not yet been able to realize the full extent of my own 
bereavement in the loss of this sweet young creature 
who was one day to have been my wife. But through it 
all we must remember that it is an All-wise hand which 
has dealt us this terrible blow; and further, that what 
is our irreparable loss is her infinite gain. Life at best 
is very short, and only the blissful hereafter can reveal 
to us the grand plan of salvation that to us who have 
not tasted of death is shrouded in mystery too pro- 
found for our weak intellects to ever penetrate.’^ 

Feeling that her presence was no longer desired, 
Miss Flaxham wdslied the gentlemen good night and 
retired to her room almost convulsed with laughter at 
the Baron’s sudden piety. Tossing cap and curls aside 
and washing the brown paste from her pretty face, she 
dropped into a chair near the window to await Doro- 
thy’s coming, to hear her experience of the evening and 
also to relate her own. 

Taking up the book she had thrown aside an hour 
before she began reading, and it was almost midnight 
before she realized the rapid flight of time and Doro- 
thy’s continued absence. 

It was some time after Miss Flaxham left the draw- 
ing-room before Von Floville succeeded in comforting 
and calming Mr. Sinclair from his recent emotion, and 
it was past eleven by the clock in the hall when the old 
man suggested that the Baron might feel like retiring 
and rang for Peter to show him to his room. 

It seemed the very perversity of fate that Mr. Sin- 
clair should choose this hour of all hours and this night 
of all nights to take a w^alk before retiring, and greater 
perversity still that he should bend his footsteps, of 
all directions, in the direction of the lake. Perhaps he 
was thinking of Marguerite. This had been one of her 


85 


favorite haunts, and it was on the self-same spot that 
the old man now paused that she had given her prom- 
ise to become Jack^s wife. It had been only three short 
months ago, yet Avhat an eternity of suffering and woe 
had been compressed into that brief space of time. 

Voices, a short distance ahead, attracted the old 
man^s attention, and listening closely he caught the 
words: 

^^So you really intend to marry the old man, regard- 
less of anything I may have to say?’^ 
do, sir,’’ came the steady reply. 

For a moment the old man’s heart stood still. Sure- 
ly that was Dorothy who spoke. He took a step nearer 
and the first speaker continued: 

^‘Do you mean to say that in the face of all I know 
you will persist in this course? Remember, I have it 
in my power to crush you at a single blow.” 

‘‘I forget nothing,” the woman replied, ‘^and I defy 
you to do your worst!” The last words were uttered in 
a tone of desperate bravado. 

^Ts it possible that my lady is really in love with 
her venerable fiance?” asked the mocking voice of the 
first speaker. 

“Yes, sir, it is quite true that I love the gentleman 
to whom I am affianced, compared to which the idle 
fancy I once entertained for you fades into insignifi- 
cance as the faint glow of a candle does before the 
brightness of the noonday sun.” 

“My lady grows eloquent under this master passion, 
and by Heaven, whether you Avill or not. I’ll have the 
kisses that were mine before you ever saw this Old 
Croesus who has won you away from me!” With a 
plunge forward he caught her in his powerful arms 
and the next moment James Sinclair had thrust a 
lighted match between the two faces. With a stifled 
sigh he recoiled from Avhat it revealed. 

“My God, Dumbarton,” he moaned, “what further 
havoc Avill you work in my poor, blasted, old life?” 


CHAPTER XL 


DR. MEELEBANK’S TIMELY ARRIVAL. 

WHEN Dorothy heard those heartbroken words fall 
from the old mau^s lips she made one desperate elfort 
for freedom from the strong arms that held her and 
freed herself. With the fleetness of the wind she sped 
up the avenue, and gaining entrance to the house by 
the library window she dashed into Miss Flaxham’s 
room, motioned her to follow, and dashed out again 
toward her own aj)artment. By the time the nurse 
could adjust her cap and curls Dorothy had thrown off 
her dress and put on a robe de niiit. 

She was pacing the floor in an agony of suspense 
when Miss Flaxiiam reached the room. 

^^Oh, ’Delle, what must I do?^’ she cried. ^^Mr. Sin- 
clair has discovered all. He came right up, just as 
that vile wretch caught me in his arms and would have 
kissed me but for his intervention.’’ 

. ‘‘Hush, hush; not another word. Get into bed with 
all possible haste and do not speak again to-night,” 
commanded Miss Flaxham. 

Every vestige of color had faded from Dorothy’s 
face. Withoiit a word of protest she obeyed the nurse, 
and the next moment the bell was i^ealing loudly 
through the servants’ quarters. Old Becky sprang out 
of bed with as much haste as her rheumatic joints 
would allow, and without pausing to think of her ab- 
breviated attire, rushed up the stairs. 

She was met on the landing by the trained nurse, 
who exclaimed: 

“Becky, I must have hot water at once. Miss Merle- 
bank is dangerously ill; hot water and mustard; please 
send them up immediately.” 


87 


Becky hastened to supply the required remedies, and 
by the time Mr. Sinclair reached the house everything 
was in a state of dire confusion. 

^‘What does this mean, Peter?’’ he asked, seeing the 
servants running hither and thither through the halls 
like so many wild creatures. 

^‘It’s Miss Dorothy, Marse James, tnk suddenly ill, 
an’ Miss Flaxham do say she’s been onconshus for half 
an hour.” 

Mr. Sinclair stood aghast! Had he really been mis- 
taken after all ? 

^‘What is this yon are saying? Miss Merlebank ill, 
did you say?” 

‘^Yes, Marse, onconshus, they say!” replied Peter. 

^‘Yes, Mr. Sinclair, it is quite true,” said Miss Flax- 
ham, coming suddenly upon the scene. 

‘^Why, I was sure 1 saw her down at the lake half an 
hour ago,” said Mr. Sinclair. 

^‘Yon were mistaken,” replied the nurse. ^^When I 
left the drawing-room at ten o’clock, I went at once to 
my own room and found Miss Merlebank there reading. 
Half an hour ago I suggested to her that as she had suf- 
fered so with headache all the afternoon it would per- 
haps be better for her to retire. She rose to go, and 
as she did so I noticed tMit she did not look altogether 
natural. ^What is it, Dorothy?’ I asked, and she re- 
plied that her head felt dizzy, oh, so dizzy, and in 
another moment she was lying on the floor utterly un- 
conscious.” 

^This is dreadful,” murmured Mr. Sinclair. ^^Have 
yon sent for a physician?” 

‘H)h, no,” replied the nurse; have often attended 
Miss Merlebank in attacks like this and know quite as 
well what to do as a physician would. A few hours 
sleep will set her all right again, though she may be 
confined to her room for several days.” 

The honest old man never for a moment thought of 
doubting this story, and he felt relieved to know that 
Dorothy had not been out of the house. There was 
Mary, the white chambermaid, just a trifle taller than 
Dorothy, and with his failing sight he might easily 


88 


have made the mistake. At any rate he persuaded 
himself to think so, and when he called on Dolly in her 
room the following morning and saw how pale and 
weak she was his heart smote him for ever having 
doubted her. 

‘‘Dorothy, dear,’’ he said, bending over her, “don’t 
you think we might as well be married at once and go 
abroad? The change would be beneficial to both of 
ns.” 

“You may consult papa, Mr. Sinclair,” replied Doro- 
thy, with a pretty show of filial devotion. She had not 
the remotest idea that her father would be found in 
consulting distance for several months yet, but that 
w^as merely a matter of conjecture on her part as the 
Doctor seldom took his daughter into his confidence. 

Breakfast was just over when the post-bag arrived, 
containing two letters, one for ^Ir. Sinclair, the other 
for Miss Flaxham. Mr. Sinclair’s proved to be from 
Dr. Merlebank, stating that he might be expected ar 
“Glymont” at any hour. 

The one addressed to Miss Flaxham bore the name of 
a private sanitarium somewhere in the upper portion 
of Yew Hampshire, and contained an offer of a very 
remunerative position in that institution. 

Mr. Sinclair expressed himself as very thankful that 
the Doctor was soon to return. 

Whatever the Baron felt he wisely kept to himself, 
but one thing quite certain, he would accept no invita- 
tion, no matter how pressing, to remain longer at 
“Glymont.” It was remarkable how many pressing 
engagements he seemed suddenly to remember. . 

It was late in the afternoon following the receipt of 
the letter that the Doctor arrived, and as soon as the. 
first greetings were over, Mr. Sinclair hurried him up- 
stairs to Dorothy’s room, declaring he had spent a day 
and night of greatest anxiety over her condition. The 
Doctor fully agreed with Mr. Sinclair that these sud 
den attacks to which his daughter was subject would 
be relieved by nothing so soon as a change of climate. 

Dorothy puckered up her pretty brows in a frown. 


89 


She liked no place so Avell as America, and why need 
they leave dear old ^^Glymont?^’ 

Mr. Sinclair left father and daughter to talk the mat- 
ter over to themselves, and the result was a pretty 
strong war of Avords. 

‘‘I don^t want to get married at all,’^ Dorothy de- 
clared petulantly. 

^A^ou are free to use ^mnr own choice and miss the 
opportunity of your lifetime,” said the Doctor with ut- 
most indifference. 

^^And have it throAvn in my face the rest of my days 
if I am so unfortunate as to need a new dress or a new 
hat,” said Dorothy. 

^^Oh, no, I assure you it would not make the slightest 
difference to me if you threw oA^er your lover to-mor- 
roAV,” replied her father. 

^^Since when have you become so unmindful of this 
world’s goods, my adored papa?” ' 

^‘Since the day of Marguerite Courtney’s death.” 

^^Then it Avas really the Avoman and not her money 
you wanted, after all?” 

^‘It was, most assuredly. Could you say the same in 
regard to your own choice. Miss Merlebank?” 

‘‘I hope I am not such an idiotic fool,” replied Miss 
Merlebank, with a contemj)tuous shrug of her pretty 
shoulders. 

^AVhich means that you consider your father such?” 
queried the Doctor. 

^^Yoii may draAV your own conclusions from my 
words,” said Dorothy, outlining the figures on the 
satin quilt Avith a hairpin. 

^Gn the event of your marrying this good gentleman 
and inheriting his fortune, what share am I to have in 
jmur gains?” 

^^That depends upon hoAV soon you complete the 
work you begun once before,” said Dorothy ^Gn case 
you complete it inside of six months one-half is yours.” 

^^And why this hurry?” 

^^That, my dear papa, does not in the least concern 
you. My reasons are my own.” 

^A^ou SAvear that you will do this?” 


90 


^^Most solemnly.’’ 

^^Agreed, Doll; but remember, if you fail to fulfill 
your promise I Lave the means of making 3^011 repent to 
the end of your life.” With this the Doctor strode out 
of the room, and Dorothy moved languidl}^ among the 
downy pillows and gave vent to an incredible laugh. 
She felt not the slightest fear of her father’s myste- 
rious power, and congratulated herself upon the 
thought that once she was the millionaire’s wife she 
would hold the reins of coercion in her own hands. 

Dr. Merlebank wandered around after the interviev/ 
with Dorothy until he found Mr. Sinclair, who was en- 
jo^fing a quiet doze in a hammock under the spreading 
maples that shaded the lawn at ^^Gl^unout.” 

^‘AVell, my friend,” he said. Hinging himself on the 
grass, have at last persuaded my willful daughter 
that an early marriage would be the best i)ossible plan 
for every one concerned, and she authorized me to say 
that she Avill be married one month from to-da^q if 
such an early date meets with your approval.” 

Mr. Sinclair sprang to his feet with the agilitv of a 
school boy. Allow me to thank 3^011, Doctor, for the 
deep interest 3^ou have taken in 1113^ happiness. I as- 
sure 3mu matters could not have been arranged more 
to my satisfaction. 1 shall immediately set about i^rep- 
a rations for nw wedding, though, of course, 3^our 
daughter understands that I would not care to make 
any great disphn^ so soon after the sad events of the 
past few weeks.” 

^‘Oh, certainly not. Doroth3^ would never be so 
thoughtless as to expect an3^thing of the sort. In fact, 
I think she prefers to have the marriage as quiet as 
l^ossible. She never really cared for show,” said the 
Doctor. 

Which goes to ])rove her good sense,” said Mr. Sin- 
clair. ‘G consider that I have been extremel3^ fortu 
nate in winning such a true, unassuming young girl, 
and I feel sure she will do honor to my choice.” 

The Doctor’s radiant race bespoke his entire satis- 
faction. 

As soon as her father was safel3^ out of sight Doro- 


91 


thy got out of bed, donned a pretty morning gown and 
went in search of Miss Flaxham. 

‘^Well, ^Delle,’’ she said, seating herself on the side 
of the box Miss Flaxham was packing, have con- 
sented to marry the old man a month from to-day, 
though how I am to carry it out I cannot tell. Do you 
think you could come back a day or two before the wed- 
ding, just to cheer me up, you know?’^ 

“Xo,’’ said MissFlaxham, tossing a large roll of white 
aprons and caps into the box. will not be able to 
get off a single day for six months after I enter upon 
my duties in this new held. Keep up a brave heart, 
dear, and remember that not one girl in ten thousand 
gets such a golden opportunity as this.” 

^^Yes, Mlelle, ‘golden’ is the word. Less than a mil- 
lion would never induce me to marry that old dotard 
with one foot in the grave and the other on the brink, 
thougli I really told some one two days ago that I was 
hopelessly in love. Ha! iia! ha! Imagine me in love, 
’Delle. I flatter myself that I am not susceptible to 
the grande passion 

“Xot even where your anonymous correspondent is 
concerned?” asked Miss Flaxham, Avith a mischievous 
jerk of her head in the direction of the lake. 

Dorothy dropped her eyes. 

“I am not so sure of myself on that score,” she said. 
“I feel a ratlier strange sensation in the region of my 
heart whenever I see him or hear his Amice, and — ex- 
cuse me, ’Delle, for tiie confession — but I felt rather 
pleased than otherAvise Avhen he caught me in his arms 
that night, but I can tell you the pleasure Avas of shore 
duration. That liglited match thrust into my face al 
most struck me blind. 1 neAmr liaAm realized hoAV I 
reached the house. I tliink 1 must have been gifted 
Avitii supernatural strength.” 

Miss Flaxham laughed aloud. 

“1 flatter myself that I am a pretty clever liar to 
make the old man belieAm you innocent of this little de- 
ception. HoAveAmr, I succeeded admirably, and I learn 
from good authority that Mary, the chambermaid, has 
been informed that after this AAmek her services will no 


92 


longer be required at ‘Glymont/ Mr. Sinclair plainly 
giving her to understand that no servant, however 
efficient, may hope to retain a position under his roof 
so long as she encourages visits from Jack Dumbar- 
ton.’’ 

^‘That is rather hard upon his servants, to say noth- 
ing of poor Jack, isn’t it?” 

‘^Eather,” agreed Miss Flaxham, ^^though I dare say 
he will have very little occasion to enforce this new law 
after I am gone. I feel sure Jack will find something 
to keep him employed up in New Hampshire, once I 
am stationed there.” 

‘^Let us hope so,” said Dorothy. ^^But, be that as it 
may, he will never force another dollar from me, and I 
have an idea that a year hence I shall be scot free 
from his hateful persecutions.” 

^‘Quite an alluring prospect,” said Miss Flaxham 
with a sarcastic smile. 

^^Oh, you know quite well what I mean, ’Delle, al- 
though you pretend to be so dense,” said Dorothy, con 
tracting her pretty brows in a frown and shaking her 
fluffy head disgustedly. 

‘^Don’t get cross, dear,” said the nurse. ^^You know 
my mysterious allusions always lead to your interest. 
Of course, if you needed a nurse I should remain with 
you, but my services are entirely superfluous now, and 
besides, a poor woman must not let an opportunity go 
by unnoticed when her bread and butter is at stake.” 

Dorothy looked at Miss Flaxham as if she thought 
the woman suddenly gone mad. What was the mean- 
ing of this wild digression? The question needed no 
answer, for at that moment the chambermaid entered 
the room. She had come to assist Miss Flaxham with 
her packing. Her eyes were red from weeping, and 
when questioned as to the cause of her distress she re- 
plied that Mr. Sinclair had given her notice that she 
must find another place. Mary was bright and intelli 
gent, beyond the usual degree of her class, and she felt 
very keenly the shadow of being discharged under 
such circumstances. 

^Jf I was guilty. Miss Flaxham, I should not expect 


93 


anything better, but God knows I am innocent. I have 
not laid my eves on Mr. Dumbarton since Miss Margie 
died.’’ 

Dorothy assumed an air of importance as befitted 
the future mistress of ^^Glymont.” 

^^Can you swear that you are telling the truth, 
Mary?” she asked. 

never swore in my life. Miss Dorothy, but I call on 
God to strike me dead if I have told you a lie.” 

‘‘Very well,” said Dorothy, “go about your duties 
and 1 will see what I can do toward coaxing Mr. Sin- 
clair to let you remain in your present position.” 

Mary was profuse in her thanks to the dear young 
lady, and Dorothy broke into a musical laugh as she 
saw her disappear down the hall. 

“Simple little rustic!” she said, “never swore in her 
life. I’ll guarantee she’ll swear like a trooper before 
she’s been a year in the service of Mrs. James Sinclair; 
but I’ll not guarantee that she swears to the truth each 
time.” 

It is needless to say that Mr. Sinclair readily acqui- 
esced to the wishes of his sweetheart, and Mary kept 
her position. Miss Flaxham left that afternoon, and 
Dorothy wept her eyes almost out after she was gone. 
Dr. Merlebank said he had often heard of the institu- 
tion by which she was employed, and believed it to be 
one of the best of its kind in America. 

Preparations for the wedding began in earnest a few 
days afterward, and the bride-elect was in a perfect 
flutter of excitement when the great boxes bearing the 
name of Kedfern, and containing her hurriedly made 
trosseau, arrived at “Glymont.” Dainty lingerie had 
to be bought ready-made, there being no time to do 
otherwise, but the piles of filmy lace, flower-like em- 
broidery and snowy linen scattered over the young 
lady’s houcloir, were fine enough for a princess; how- 
ever, princesses do not usually buy their trosseaux on 
credit, and that was precisely what Mr. Sinclair’s bride 
had done. Jtieavy, corded, ivory satin, rare old lace 
and orange blossoms had been combined to make one 


94 


of the handsomest wedding gowns ever sent out from 
Kedfern’s establishment. 

‘^It looks almost like sacrilege/’ said Dorothy, as she 
touched the shimmering folds caressingly. She was 
nnable to account for it, but all that day she saw be- 
fore her the vision of a fair young girl, untainted by 
the sdns and passions of a worldly life, clad in a spot- 
less white muslin gown, and standing beside a manly 
young fellow w^hile they both plighted their vows be- 
fore God’s holy altar. And then she saw" their paths 
diverge; furrows of care marked the 3"oung man’s 
brow, and over his handsome face marks of dissipation 
fell like great black shadow’-s, blotting out the fresh 
brilliancy of the proud intellect and expansive mind. 
In the haughty, w"orldly w"oman w"ho drove him to his 
fate, she saw but a faint resemblance to the pure 
young creature who w"as as spotless in soul as the lilies 
she wore. 

grow" foolish and fanciful as an old w"oman,” she' 
said, smiling at her ow"n beautiful face in the cheval 
glass, and rearranging the crimson carnation in her 
corsage. AYliat had she to do w"ith visions, dark or 
bright? 


CHAPTER XII. 


MISS FLAXHAM IX HEX XEW HOME. 


It was near the close of day, and as dark a day as 
one would wish to see, when the train stopped at the 
little wayside station and the conductor thrust his head 
into the passenger coach and called out, ^^Belton.^’ 

Hastily gathering up her satchel and umbrella Miss 
Flaxham hurried from the car. The rain was coming 
down in torrents, and the few twinkling lights of the 
village gleamed like so many blood-shot eyes in the 
face of the storm. A more dreary, desolate looking 
spot the nurse had never seen. Hoisting her umbrella 
and drawing her coat closer around her she walked 
down the platform to where the station-master sat, 
half sheltered b}^ a faded awning that fla]3ped in every 
gust of wind like the great restless wings of a bat. 
The man threw aside a stump of cigar as she ap- 
proached, and drawing his chair further under the 
shelter of the awning asked politely: 

^AYill you have a seat, Madame?’^ 

‘^Thank you,’’ replied Miss Flaxham, think I 
scarcely have time to sit down. I wish to inquire the 
way to Oberly’s Farm.” 

^^Oberly’s Farm,” said the station-master, ^Svhy, 
Madame, that is live miles out in the country. ’Taint 
no farm at all, now; it’s been turned into a hosspittle.” 

^A"es, I understand that; I have been appointed 
head nurse, and I must reach there to-night.” 

^^Don’t see how you are to do it,” said the man 
thoughtfully^ ^^’Thout you could coax Tim Mooney to 
drive you over in his Jersey wagon. Wisht my boss 
didn’t have distemper, I’d take you over myself.” 

^A^'here could I find Mr. Mooney?” asked Miss Flax 


9G 


ham, eager to reach the end of her journey and find 
comfortable shelter from the storm. 

^^His house is straight acrost the common, over 
there where you see the lantern hangin’ on the door. 
It’s powerful muddy ’crost that common; you’d better 
take my place here and let me go over. He’ll ’commo- 
date me if he’ll ’commodate anybody. 

am sure you are very kind, but I really don’t like 
to put you to so much trouble.” 

’Taint no trouble, ma’am. I’ll measure my length 
towards the ^Old Gentleman’s’ region for a fine lookin’ 
’oomau like you.” 

Miss Flaxham smiled at the oddly paid compliment, 
and, before she could utter any further remonstrance, 
the station-master had pulled his slouch hat down 
over his face and was dashing through the rain at an 
incredible rate of speed. 

Tim was not particularly anxious to take a drive 
of five miles in the drenching rain, but five dollars was 
not to be picked up every day by these rough mount- 
aineers, and that was what Miss Flaxham was willing 
to pay. The station-master offered to go himself if 
Tim would stay and look after the train that was due 
at 7 p. m. 

Tim replied that he would not trust Joe Burkley to 
drive ^GMnce Charlie and his Jersey wagon” over the 
rocky road to Oberly’s farm in broad daylight, much 
less in the pitchy darkness of a stormy night like this. 

Miss Flaxham experienced a sense of relief as she 
took her seat beside Tim Mooney and saw her tAVO big 
trunks stood on end in the back of the wagon. It took 
fully an hour and a half to travel over the fiA^e miles 
of rocky road to the farm, and when the great, shack- 
ling old building at last loomed up before them the 
nurse felt as though she had deliberately severed every 
tie that bound her to the outside world and voluntarily 
entered into exile. 

If the place looked grim and forbidding by night it 
looked doubly so by day, Avhen the bright sunshine re- 
vealed all its ghastly horror. The great, shackling 
old wooden house extended over several hundred feet 


97 


of ground and looked as though it was originally in- 
tended for a summer resort hotel. The entire building 
was painted a vivid crimson, with window blinds a 
sombre black. Over the doorway, in jagged yelloAv let- 
ters, appeared the sign, 

^^THE HOME SANITAKIUM.’^ 

And a more forbidding looking structure could not be 
imagined, but the interior of the house presented a 
\ery welcome contrast to the exterior. The rooms 
were all large, well lighted and ventilated, and fur- 
nished with faultless taste. At the time Miss Flax- 
ham entered upon her duties there were only three 
patients in the sanitarium, none very sick; all of them, 
in fact, able to take their meals in the dining-room, 
so the nurse really felt more like she was taking upon 
herself the responsibility of a family rather than the 
care of patients in a hospital. 

Then there was the attending physician, a man 
rather above the medium height, quiet, almost to the 
extent of sadness. His intellectual forehead was 
crowned by an abundance of iron-gray hair and his 
fine gray eyes had such a serious expression lurking in 
their unfathomable depth that he always gave one the 
impression that he was a man with a story in his life. 
He may have been fifty years of age, and he may have 
been older. But it was not his personal appearance, 
or even himself at all that impressed Miss Flaxham 
with a sort of undefined dread, fear, or fascination, 
she could not tell which. His slightest wish was 
obeyed by every patient, and they really seemed to 
look up to him with a feeling akin to adoration. Of 
the three, the old gentleman, his sister, or her daugh- 
ter, not one but was willing to obey his slightest de- 
sire. 

The morning after Miss Flaxham^s arrival she pre- 
sented herself at the doctor’s office and reported her- 
self ready for duty. 

Dr. Garrison arose and shook her hand cordially, 
am quite pleased to obtain the services of so effi- 

4 


98 


cient an assistant, Miss Flaxham; I believe you under- 
stand that I require more brains than experience on 
the part of my nurses, and as such you come highly 
recommended. May I ask if you can be trusted to do 
all in your power to keep up the high reputation of 
this institution?^^ 

^^\bsolutely, sir.^’ 

“Very wellV^ replied the Doctor. “I must first in- 
struct you as regards the nature of your services here. 
In the first place, you understand that our patients are 
all slightly demented. This place is recommended to 
them as a summer resort. They come here fully be' 
lieving themselves on a pleasure trip, when really they 
want treatment, and get it, too, for that matter. That 
old lady and her daughter came near losing their lives 
on a boat that burned in mid-ocean, and when the old 
gentleman, the brother and uncle, heard of the dis- 
aster, he went stark mad. I was returning from 
abroad on the same vessel and was saved in the life- 
boat from which the lady and her daughter were 
picked up. Upon our arrival in New York I at once 
looked up the relatives of the unfortunate ladies, and 
found the old gentleman in this demented condition. 
They are very happy in their restoration to each other, 
and are enjoying this summer outing to a great extent. 
To them that sign over the front door reads, ‘The 
Home of the Happy. ^ You could not convince them 
that it was anything else. Now, Miss Flaxham, you 
understand; however, you will be known to them as 
Mrs. Garrison, as the^^ have been told that my wife 
would arrive to-da}^’’ 

Miss Flaxham flushed a vivid crimson at this an- 
nouncement, but simply bowed and replied to the Doc- 
tor that she understood- She found. her position a 
comparatively easy one, having nothing whatever to 
do but enjoy herself, if enjoyment was to be found in 
this isolated spot. She was practically the mistress of 
the mansion, and the sweet young girl with the sea- 
blue eyes and raven-black hair soon learned to love 
the magniflcent woman who was alw^ays so kind. 

Dr. Garrison w^atched the nurse wdth his solemn 


99 


gray eyes until he was satisfied that she would do to 
trust. 

Seeing her in the grounds one day he crossed the 
lawn to where she sat, and flinging himself down on 
the grass at her side, he said: 

^^Miss Flaxham, you have been at this place only one 
week, rather a short length of time to decide so mo- 
mentous a question, but I have come to the conclu- 
sion that I can trust you absolutely/’ 

IVliss Flaxham raised her magnificent eyes to him 
in a way that set his pulses leaping and completely 
tlirew him off his guard. 

believe I told you that once before. Dr. Garrison."’ 

‘‘Yes, I remember you did,” said the Doctor, ^‘but I 
was always of the opinion that the best thing to prove 
a person’s worth was to try them. That is the plan 
1 have used in your case, and I am happy to say you 
have not coirie out Svanting.’ I suppose. Miss Flax- 
ham, you know wliat part of the country Miss Daisy 
Stafford and her mother are from?” 

“Oh, yes; 1 knev^ that as soon as I met them. One 
usually can tell from the accent, you know.” 

“As a rule, yes,” replied the Doctor. “They usually 
liaA e an accent peculiarly their own.” 

“I understand from Miss Daisy that they take baths 
in the beautiful lake in front of the hotel,” said Miss 
Flaxham, ^yith a low laugh. 

“Oh, yes, 1 alloAV them to go in bathing as often as 
the}^ choose,” replied the Doctor, with a smile. He 
was never knoAvn to laugh aloud. “A splash in the 
water seems to do them a world of good. Miss Daisy 
is quite an expert swimmer, though her mother has 
never Avholly lost her fear of the Avater since the burn- 
ing of the ship, and very seldom ventures more than 
a few yards from the shore. The old gentleman 
imagines himself a great artist, and does not care to 
leav^e his easel for anything.” 

Tim IMooney’s Jersey Avagon halting at the gate at- 
tracted the Doctor’s attention. Tim had driven over 
to bring the mail from Belton, half a dozen letters for 
Dr. Garrison and one for Miss Flaxham. The Doctor’s 


100 


correspondence was chiefly of a business nature, re- 
quiring immediate answers, and on receipt of the mail 
he went at once to his office to answer any communica- 
tion that might prove of importance. Miss Flaxham 
remained on the lawn. Tossing the envelope aside, 
she began reading the letter, and was so engrossed in 
its contents she did not notice the approach of Miss 
Stafford until the young lady gave a faint scream and 
dropped to the ground. 

‘‘What is it, dear?’’ asked the nurse, bending over 
her in an instant. 

“Oh, tell me it isn’t true, Mrs. Garrison. I cannot 
remain here if that be true!” moaned the young girl, 
with tears streaming down her face. 

Miss Flaxham ’s eyes fell upon the envelope lying 
before her, address side up. 

“No, dearie, it is not true,” she said, laying her hand 
on the girl’s forehead. “You have a pain here, that is 
all.” 

“No, not there, but here,” replied the girl, clasping 
her hand to her heart. 

“Sit here,” said Miss Flaxham, drawing one of the 
rustic chairs toward her, “and I will bring you a glass 
of wine.” When the nurse returned Dr. Garrison ac- 
companied her. 

“I fear you have overdone yourself. Miss Stafford,’^ 
he said, fixing his solemn gray eyes steadily on the 
young girl’s face, as if to draw from her own the cause 
of this sudden attack. His gaze seemed to diffuse new 
life in the young girl. 

“I feel better now,” she said. “Thank you, dear 
Mrs. Garrison; for a moment I felt so bad. I think I 
must have had a horrid dream, for I fancied I was in 
the hands of enemies w^ho were trying to rob me. 
Wasn’t that singular? Why, I really have nothing to 
be robbed of. But I fear I should have fainted had it 
not been for your kindness, the fancy was so real.” 

Although she addressed Miss Flaxham, she had not 
once taken her eyes off the Doctor’s face. 

“We anticipate a sail on the lake this afternoon. I 


101 


hope you will be sufficiently recovered to accompany 
us,” said the Doctor. 

^^Oh, I assure you I feel quite well at this moment,” 
replied Miss Stafford, with a musical laugh. ‘‘I trust 
mamma may not learn how foolish I was this morning. 
I’m sure I must have been dreaming.” 

“Very likely,” replied the Doctor. “Mrs. Garrison 
was so frightened that I see she threw aside her let- 
ter unread. I dare say Miss Stafford will excuse you 
if you wish to finish the perusal of that poor, rejected 
letter now, Mrs. Garrison.” 

“Certainly I will,” replied Daisy. “I am exceed- 
ingly sorry I interrupted you.” 

Miss Flaxham murmured that it did not make the 
slightest difference, and gathering up the scattered 
sheets, she returned to the house. 

The letter was from Dr. Merlebank, and contained a 
full account of all that had transpired since her de- 
parture from “Glymont.” There was also a note from 
Dorothy enclosed, in which she declared she scarcely 
knew how to exist away from her “darling ’Delle,” and 
it is quite probable that Miss Flaxham had far rather 
have been in the delightful life at “Glymont” than 
sharing the exile home of the poor, demented creat- 
ures under Dr. Garrison’s care. 

A loud peal of the door-bell aroused the nurse from 
her regretful thoughts. The servant who responded 
to the summons returned with two cards. Visitors 
were very rare at the Home Sanitarium, and Miss 
Flaxham felt a strange premonition of coming danger 
w hen she entered the parlor, but her mind was quickly 
set at rest when she saw nothing more formidable 
than a feeble-looking old gentleman and a feeble wo- 
man. The gentleman came forward as she entered, 
and extending a rongh, wrinkled hand, he said: 

“You are Mrs. Garrison, I presume?” 

Miss Flaxham bowed, and the gentleman continued: 

“I was told by Dr. Merlebank, formerly of Leicester, 
England, that the Home Sanitarium was the best in- 
stitution of its kind in America, and he advised me to 
bring my wife here for treatment. For several months 


102 


she lias been laboring under the hallucination that 
she has been buried alive, and at times she becomes 
so hysterical that our local physicians are unable to 
do anything to relieve her, and the strongest opiates 
fail to produce sleep. At other times she is perfectly 
rational and enjoys life as well as she did in her 
school days, up to a few hours before the attack comes 
on, when she settles down to a state of apathy and 
pays not the slightest attention to anything, but bites 
her finger-nails until they bleed.’’ 

The old woman at that moment had her fingers in 
her mouth and appeared utterly oblivious to her sur- 
roundings. Her husband was ver^^ much distressed. 

^^You see, she has an attack coming on now,” he 
said, and, as if to prove his words, the old woman mut- 
tered : 

“Dark, damj) and cold! Dark, damp and cold!” 

“She always begins that way,” said the old man, 
and tears dropped from his faded old eyes, while the 
old woman continued her doleful mutterings, “Dark, 
damp and cold! Dark, damp and cold! and they left me 
there to die. Left me to die in the cruel grave.” 

“Calm yourself, my dear sir; I assure you Dr. Gar- 
rison is remarkable for his success in such cases of de- 
]uentia,” said Miss Flaxham, as she rose to touch the 
bell. 

In response to her ling the Doctor entered the par- 
lor. The usual pallor of his face grew a trifle deeper 
when he saw the strangers with Miss Flaxham, but 
the nurse was equal to any emergency, and upon Dr. 
Garrison’s entrance she came forward and introduced 
the old gentleman, adding as the two men bowed: 

“Mr. Yalwin is a friend of Dr. Merlebank’s, Dr. Gar- 
rison, and it Avas through him that he was persuaded 
to bring Mrs. Yalwin to the Home Sanitarium for 
treatment.” 

“Ah, I see,” said the Doctor; “so you are acquainted 
Avith Dr. Merlebank? A fine fellow, isn’t he? I knew 
him AAlien he Avas a boy, and as physicians we grad- 
uated from the same institution, though I have not 
seen him for many years. I believe the last time I met 


103 


him was at the English Ph^^sicians^ Convention held 
at the University of England some ten or twelve years 
ago.” 

The old man turned his sorrowful eyes upon his 
wife; apparently he had not heard the Doctors last 
remark. 

‘‘They had flowers, great bunches of white flowers 
piled over the grave. Dark, damp and cold!” ex- 
claimed the old woman, shaking her head solemnly, as 
she tore at her flnger-nails. 

The Doctor took a chair in front of her. She did not 
notice him, but continued her plaintive mutterings, 
and, seeing that he could not attract her attention, 
the Doctor suggested that Mr. Valwin accompany her 
to a room in the hotel, and have dinner served. This 
would perhaps detract her mind from her doleful sub- 
ject, and once she was submissive they could admin- 
ister an opiate, get her to sleep and afterward nian- 
iigement would be easy. It really seemed that Dr. 
Clarrison managed his patients with his wierd gray 
eyes, but Mrs. Valwin refused to look at him even for 
a moment. Mr. Valwin walked up to her and offered 
his arm. 

“Come, Jessie, it is time for dinner,” he said. 

Immediately Mrs. Valwin looked up. 

“Time for dinner? Well, thank heaven, I am not 
under the ground. I couldiiT eat there, it is so dark, 
so damp and cold! Are we to dine with this lady 
and gentleman?” 

“Yes,” replied her husband, “it is such a pleasant 
place here I think we’ll board with them for awhile. 
Don’t you think it will be nice?” 

“Yes, I should like that,” she replied. “It is so 
much cooler than New York, and then they tried to 
bury me there under the dark, damp earth. Oh, it was 
so cruel, and I a live woman!” 

“Well, never mind about that, dear, it is all past and 
we will try to forget it,” said the old man, soothingly. 

Just as the little company were seating themselves 
at the table a telegram arrived for Dr. Garrison. 
Hastily tearing it open, he read : 


104 


^‘Admit 
from me. 


no one to the Sanitarium until yon hear 
Particulars by mail. 


Merlebank.’’ 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A FAINTING BRIDE. 

THE Wedding Day had dawned at last. Dorothy’s 
big brown e^^es fluttered open like the eyes of an inno- 
cent child when the flrst stray beams of the rising sun 
stole in at the windoAV and touched with gold her fluffy 
brown hair. 

^‘Well, thank fortune,” she murmured, rather mys- 
teriously, ^^he has not put in his appearance so far. I 
dare sa^^ ’Delle has kept her word and found something 
for him to do up in the mountains of NeAV Hampshire, 
and I sincerely hope he will be in the Mountains of 
the Moon before I ever see him again. I think I’d re- 
joice to see his hateful face cold in death, and yet — ah, 
well, it is too late to repine OA^er Avhat might have 
been — ” 

A light rap at the door interrupted her meditations. 
Old Becky had come wdth her young lady’s breakfast. 

‘^Blessed be de bride dat de sun shines on,” quoted 
the old darkey, as she deposited the tray on a table 
near the bedside. ^^An’, ’deed. Miss Dolly, I wishes 
you many haj)py returns.” 

Dorothy broke into a musical laugh at the misap- 
plied Avords, but she thanked Becky just the same, 
and tossing back her fluffy hair she sat down to the 
table to enjoy the tempting breakfast the faithful old 
cook had prepared for her. 

^T’s often heard that brides didn’t have much appe- 
tite, so I didn’t bring you OA^er-much, Miss Dolly.” 

^^Oh, you have brought me ample,” said Dorothy; 
‘^howeAW, I suppose it is only brides who are uncertain 
of the fate that awaits them who cannot eat. You 
see, H am as happy as a big sunfloAA^er,’ and my appe- 


106 


tite is not the least impaired over the knowledge that 
I am soon to be an ^old man’s darling.’ ” 

Becky shook her fat sides with laughter. ’Deed 
you is happy, Miss Dolly, an’ you’s got a right to be. 
God bless you!” 

Having completed her breakfast Dorothy tip-toed 
down the hall to take a peep at the drawing-room, 
which had been arranged to represent a chapel. Bands 
of white satin ribbon stretched to form aisles from the 
doors to the bay window, which served as an impro- 
^'ised altar over which hung a beautiful marriage bell 
of pure white pansies and lilies. The mantel was 
banked with potted palms and Marechal Mel roses, 
while the walls were festooned with wreaths of smilax 
and feathery asparagus vine, until the apartment 
looked like a fragrant woodland bower, in which some 
fairy queen was to hold her court. Conflicting emo- 
tions filled the little bride’s heart as she gazed ui)on 
the splendor, all arranged for her sake. 

‘Tth, if I was only worthy of it all,” she sighed. 

^C4nd why are you not, my love?” asked a low voice; 
find, as she turned to look, Mr. Sinclair seized her in 
his arms and held her fast in a fond embrace. 

^‘Oh, Mr. Sinclair,” she cried, ^^do you not know that 
it is very unlucky for the bridegroom to see his bride 
on their wedding day before they meet at the altar?” 

“That is nonsense, dearest- you must not let such 
foolish thoughts trouble your pretty head. You and I 
can afford to def}'^ luck.” 

Dorothy was not so sure. 

“I only came down to look at the drawing-room, 
after the decorations were completed,” she said apolo- 
getically. 

“And I came for the self-same purpose,” replied the 
old man, hugging her closer. 

“But you see I have on only a dressing-gown,” per- 
sisted Dorothy. 

“You coukl not look more lovely in bridal attire,” 
said Mr. Sinclair. 

“It is kind of you to say so,” said Dorothy, “but 
really, Mr. Sinclair, I must go now. It would^not do 


107 


for the servants to see us here, and I dare say it is time 
I began to dress/’ 

suppose I must let you go after all those excuses,” 
said the old man, ^^biit not until you have given me a 
kiss.” 

The clever little schemer lifted her pretty face with 
the most charming degree of maiden innocence and 
bashfulness, and the next moment she had vanished 
Ilf) the stairs and shut herself in her own boudoir. 

Promptly at ten o’clock the guests began to arrive, 
and before eleven old Peter, with stately grace, had 
ushered in the last one. 

Scarcely three months had passed since this same 
assemblage had gathered here to pay the last tribute 
of respect to the memory of the sweet young girl who 
was one day to have been Jack Dumbarton’s bride and 
the heiress of ^^Glymont.” Those who had wept tears 
of sorroAv oyev the still, white face now waited with 
happy smiles to greet the woman who had so soon 
filled her placo In the old man’s heart and home. 

The filmy bridal veil had just been thrown over the 
fluffy head of the bride and fastened in place by a dia- 
mond sun-burst, the gift of the groom, when a light 
tap on the door caused her to turn from the mirror. 
The maid who was superintending her toilet responded 
to the rap and returned with a note, addressed to Dor- 
othy. A crimson flush suffused the girl’s face as she 
read the words scrawled across half a sheet of coarse, 
fools’-cap paper: 

^^Proceed with this marriage at your peril. I have 
this day learned your story. 

^‘Stanley Von Floville.” 
Dorothy tore the note in shreds and dropped them 
one by one on the blaze of the alcohol lamp that played 
such an important part in her fluffy curls, and as the 
last word of the terrible threat crumbled to ashes, she 
glided down the stairs. The sweet notes of Lohen- 
grin’s Wedding March floated out on the air as the 
bride, leaning on the arm of her father, entered the 
left aisle, and the groom, attended by Mr. Deswald, 
entered by the right. As they met at the altar. Dor- 


108 


raised her eyes for a moment, and as she did so 
she saw Baron Von Floville seated directly opposite 
her, and on his knee he held — little Lillian, the waif. 

The stately clergyman took the prayer book, bound 
in white and gold, from the hand of the bride and be- 
gan the impressive service. 

^‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the 
sight of God and — ’’ 

AVith a loud ^^Ahem!’’ the Baron rose to his feet. Mr. 
Sinclair felt the hand on his arm tremble suddenly, 
heard the low, fluttering sigh that escaped her lips, 
and before the guests were aware of the slight inter- 
ruption in the ceremony, Dorothy Merlebank had drop- 
ped in a dead faint at the feet of her bridegroom. 

Consternation reigned during the flve minutes that 
followed. Mr. Sinclair wrung his hands in mute dis- 
tress, while the Doctor bent over the unconscious form 
of his daughter in an agony of suspense, unable to 
learn the least cause for her sudden illness. 

B}^ loving hands the stricken bride borne to her 
own apartment. Dr. Merlebank announced that there 
would be no wedding to-day, and one by one the guests 
departed, only the gray-haired minister remaining to 
comfort his sorrowing friend. 

^TilymonC’ had surely become an ill-fated home. 
Misfortune had hovered over it, like a great black 
shadow, since that sad Christmas eve when the master 
had fallen ill and strangers had entered its portals. 

The Baron felt a grim sort of satisfaction Avhen he 
saw the carriages drive away, and if a face devoid of 
any expression of disappointment goes for anything, 
Mr. Deswald shared his sentiments. Dr. Merlebank’s 
muttered imprecations over the sudden collapse of his 
hopes counted for naught, as they were only heard by 
tlie newly-appointed French maid, who barely under- 
stood English at all; she attributed MonsieuFs inco- 
herent talk to his distress over ^^ze szweet young Mad- 
emoiselle.^’ 

It was fully two hours after the time appointed for 
the wedding before Dorothy regained consciousness. 
There had been no deception about her fainting; it 


109 


was a seriously genuine affair, and when the fright- 
ened little bride opened her eyes to the appalling truth 
she wept aloud in her anguish, and implored Heaven 
to let her die rather than live to have her terrible se- 
cret disclosed to Mr. Sinclair. 

Dr. Merlebank laughed sneeringly. 

^^It is rather odd. Miss Merlebank, that a young lady 
of your station should have such dreadful secrets. Had 
you acted like a sensible woman and not given away 
to your hysterical tendencies you might have been 
married and safely on your wedding journey by this 
time. May I ask the cause of this very mysterious 
attack?^’ 

Dorothy opened her big eyes with a flash of indig- 
nation. 

^^You may ask as often as you choose. Dr. Merlebank, 
but you will only be wasting your time, for I have not 
the slightest intention of making a confldante of you.’’ 

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders as an indication 
of his displeasure. 

believe it has gone out of fashion for daughters 
to conflde in their fathers,” he said. 

^‘At any rate,” replied Dorothy, ^^when they are 
blest with such angelic papa’s as I have been. I would 
never shock you by a recital of my grievous shortcom- 
ings.” 

Dr. Merlebank flushed to the roots of his hair. 

^^Don’t indulge in such sarcastic personalities, Dor- 
othy; it is not in the least becoming in one of your 
age.” 

^^You provoke me to it, papa.” 

regret having done so. Let us lay aside this 
morning’s mistakes and arrange our plans for the fu- 
ture. Do you really intend to marry Mr. Sinclair?” 

see no other way of getting i)ossession of his 
money,” replied Dorothy. 

^^Will you be able to do so at an early date?” 

^Ht is my intention to have the ceremony performed 
at nine o’clock this evening, and leave on the 10:30 
train for New York, to sail for Southampton to-morrow 
at noon.” 


no 


^^Then why this delay? Could not the marriage have 
gone on this morning, and arrangements have been 
made to this effect ?’’ asked the Doctor. 

''Oh, I dare say they could,'' replied Dorothy, "but 
one is not resi)onsible for one's physical weaknesses, 
papa, dear." 

"Mr. Sinclair does not know of this latest arrange- 
ment?" qiimded the Doctor. 

"No, but you may go and request him to come to me 
at once." 

By the time Mr. Sinclair ascended the stairs Dor- 
othy had donned a pretty dressing gown and was look- 
ing the very picture of frailty and innocence when he 
came into her room. 

"You sent for me, darling," he said, pausing beside 
her. "Is there anything you desire of me?" 

"Have a seat, Mr. Sinclair. I wish to speak to you 
in regard to our marriage which was so unfortunately 
interrupted this morning. I was very foolish to be so 
affected by a mere fancy, but I assure you it quite over- 
came me for a time." 

The old man took one of the pale little hands that 
lay so still in her lap as he asked: "What was the 
fancy, dearest; may I not know?" 

"I fear you will call me a very foolish girl, Mr. Sin- 
clair, but "l was sure I smelt the odor of tube-roses." 

"I should not wonder if you did," interrupted Mr. 
Sinclair, "the Baron brought an exquisite bouquet of 
them, and I am quite sure they were on a small table 
in the drawing-room." 

"Well," continued Dorothy, "I had always heard 
that tube roses were unlucky for a bride, and the mo- 
ment I smelt them there seemed to rise before me a 
v ision of that other occasion Avhen flowers had fllled 
the drawing-room, and the same minister had stood 
beside a young girl robed in white; the words he was 
uttering sounded strange and far-off, and I felt sure I 
was lying cold and dead and it was my funeral service 
that was being read. I remember grasping your arm 
for support, and then I remember no more." 

"My poor darling," murmured the old man, taking 


Ill 


lier in his arms, ‘^you must have been very nervously 
wrought up to become so fanciful. I must take you 
away from ‘Glymont’ until the sad memories that 
hover over the place have been removed by time and 
you are well again. Do you think we might be mar- 
ried in a few days?’^ 

^‘Pardon me for the suggestion, Mr. Sinclair,’’ said 
the artful little woman with a blush of maiden mod- 
esty, “but I really think it would be better to have the 
ceremony performed at 9 o’clock. By doing so we 
could catch the 10:30 train for New York and sail for 
Southampton to-morrow at noon, as was our original 
intention.” 

“I quite agree with you, dearest,” said Mr. Sinclair, 
kissing her tenderly, “I shall make the necessary prep- 
arations at once.” 

“Only, please, do not have any guests,” pleaded Dor- 
othy. “I shall feel better if we have no one but Mr. 
Deswald and papa.” 

“It shall be as you wish, dear,” replied the old man, 
as he left her, and Dorothy, feeling that slie had ac- 
complished a very clever piece of work, threAV herself 
across the bed for a few hours’ rest before preparing 
for the ordeal that awaited her. 

Tliere was no trailing white satin, no filmy veil, no 
fragrant fiowers or waiting guests to participate in the 
quiet wedding that took i^lace at “Glymont” that night. 

The bi'ide, attired in traveling costume of plain 
brown clotli, entered the library on the arm of her 
father, wlio for the second time that day gave her to 
the groom, and in ten minutes’ time Doroth}^ Merle- 
bank was Mrs. Sinclair, and then the strangest thing 
happened. 

Dr. Merlebank had kissed the bride and Mr. Deswald 
was offering his congratulations to the happy pair 
when the lace curtains at the windoAV divided and 
little Lillian, clad in her snowy white gown, her tiny 
pink feet bare, toddled across the floor and exclaimed 
in her childish little voice: 

“Tiss me, Dolly.” 

Dorothy’s face grew a trifle paler, but she knew it 


112 


would never do to appear frightened at this unaccount- 
able presence of the little one. Catching the child up 
in her arms she covered its face with kisses, exclaim- 
ing the while, ^‘You precious little cherub! So you 
have come to wish ^Dolly’ happiness in her new life 

Dr. Merlebank looked at the child in blank amaze- 
ment. 

^‘What the devil is that brat doing here?’’ he asked. 

^^Oh, papa, for shame! How can you speak so of the 
dear little baby?” cried Dorothy. ^^She has doubtless 
been awakened by our voices, and seeing the light in 
here has followed us. You knew Doroth}" ought to 
have a bridesmaid, didn’t you, dear?” she added, kiss- 
ing the child again and again, as she gave it over to 
Mary, who had been summoned to take charge of it. 

No one was able to account for the little one’s pres- 
ence, Mary declaring that only half an hour had 
elapsed since she had been to the nursery and found 
her sound asleep. 




CHAPTER XIV. 


AN APPARITION IN MID-OCEAN. 

DOROTHY SINCLAIR drew a sigh of infinite relief 
when she saw the turrets and spires of New York grow dim 
ill the distance and the tug cut loose from the steamer 
and retrace its watery track to the harbor. The New 
World had faded to a dim line against the western 
horizon before she turned her eyes from its receding 
shores. There w^as a comfortable sense of security, 
for awhile at least, in her heart, as she stood on deck 
watching the great foam-capped waves lash their 
green wmters against the side of the vessel and toss 
their spray in her face. There was no danger of being 
confronted by Baron Yon Floville on the ocean’s broad 
breast, and once they were landed on the shores of the 
Old World Dorothy meant to defy him in finding her 
in her mad chase through its great cities. 

^^Do 3 ^ou love the ocean so well, my dear?” asked Mr. 
Sinclair, as he wmtched his young wdfe gaze with spell- 
bound admiration over the trackless expanse of 
waters. 

‘Wes,” replied Dorothy, ‘T never grow tired of 
w atching the waves or listening to the mystic murmur 
of the ocean.” 

“Then you shall have a cottage by the sea where the 
song of the breakers will lull you to sleep at night, and 
the breath of the tide will greet you first in the morn- 
ing.” 

Dorothy looked up w’ith a bewitching smile. 

“1 am afraid you will spoil me, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“That is my happy privilege, darling, and, after all, 
who is so worthy of my attention as the dear little 
wife who is all my own? You are all I have to love 


114 


now; surely you will allow me to lavish upon you the 

ealth of my affection/’ 

shall allow you to please yourself, dear husband,” 
replied Dorothy, with such charming grace that the 
fond old man who dwelt upon her every smile was 
transported into the seventh heaven of delight. No 
school boy, basking in the smiles of his first sweetheart, 
could have been happier than James Sinclair, and he 
mentally swore that come what might, she should 
•never have cause to be other than the bright and joy- 
ous creature she was to-day. But even such great bliss 
is not proof against that dreaded foe of mankind — sea- 
sickness — and before the steamer was fifty leagues 
from the harbor the happy bridegroom was completely 
in the tyrant’s power. For three days he was unable 
to leave his stateroom, and Dorothy remained beside 
him like some ministering angel, whiling the hours 
away Avith her vivacious talk or reading to him some 
interesting article from current magazines. In fact, 
the Doctor’s daughter was a perfect sailor, as she de- 
clared she had spent more of her time on sea than on 
land, and so far had neA^er felt a moment’s sea-sickness 
in her life. Half a dozen times she had rounded the 
Fape of Good Hope, and as many times gazed from the 
steamer’s deck upon the j-utting rocks of Cape Horn. 
She had gathered spring fiowers in the sunny land of 
England, and toured the continent of Australia. She 
had Avatched the sun set through the portals of the 
Golden Gate, and AueAA^ed the daAvn of day as she 
passed through the rock-AA^alled Straits of Gibraltar. 
AAJiy all t)f these long trips had been taken and to 
Avliat end they led, Mr. Sinclair never once thought of 
asking. He felt proud of the fact that this beautiful, 
ai'complished Avoman, Avho had traveled almost the 
Avorld oA'er and remained heart-Avhole, had at last 
found her ideal in himself, and casting all else to the 
winds, had giA^en her fair young life to make happy his 
declining yeai's. Looking fondly into her face the 
old man said: 

^^Beally, my loA^e, there are very feAV places to Avhich 
you liaA^e not been.” 


115 


yes/^ replied Dorothy, ^^tliere are many i^laces 
yet that are entirely neAv to me. There is the Holy 
Imnd; I have always had a great desire to visit, but 
somehow papa could never quite arrange to go there, 
and the land of the Orient; oh, how I have longed to 
si)end even a single day in Vallambrosa, and to catch 
the breezes that float over the vales of Cashmere. The 
world is so wide, Mr. Sinclair, one can never quite see 
it all. Leaving these tropical climes, where the air is 
laden Avith the perfumes of exotics and the soft, warm 
sunshine hangs like a golden veil over the blooming 
earth, I should like to visit Siberia, the home of the 
poor exiles, who spend their lives in one vast endless 
night, bound by chains of oppression and woe. I feel 
that I am not grateful enough by half for all the bless- 
ings I enjoy, and once I had seen those i)oor creatures 
I am sure my heart would go out in one endless theme 
of thanksgiving to God for his exceeding kindness. 
After I had visited this desolate spot I should like to 
continue my waj north until I reached the spot Avhere 
all the Avorld seems to merge into a great solid rock, 
overlooking the frozen sea where ships no longer sail, 
but Avhere once in six months, as the hands of the clock 
point to midnight, a flash of light spreads a golden 
I>athway across the icy Avaters and aboA^e the dark ho- 
rizon the sun bursts upon the Ausion like a silent wit- 
ness of God’s eternal might and supreme power over 
tlie uniA^erse; where the sea gulls are the only inhabit- 
ants and the great King of HeuA^en is the only Mon- 
arch.” 

^AVhy, Dorothy, dear, I had no idea you were such 
an enthusiastic little Avoman. Where did you get these 
lofty notions?” asked the old man, Avith a smile of 
l>leasure. 

^G’m sure I cannot tell,” replied Dorothy, ^V)nly I 
lun^e read of these places, and it impressed me so that 
1 have longed to go and see them for myself, ever since 
I VA as a little child.” 

^^You shall certainly do so, ni}^ dear Avife, as early as 
3^011 choose. You shall neA^er have cause to say that in 


116 


becoming the wife of an old man you threw away your 
chance of happiness.’’ 

“Do not speak disparagingly of my husband, Mr. 
Sinclair; he is not by any means a modern Methuselah, 
and if he were I assure you I would not regret my 
choice, as I am far happier in being ^an old man’s dar- 
ling’ than I should have been had I married any one 
else.” She uttered this declaration in such a charm- 
ing, artless manner that Mr. Sinclair was completely 
deceived. Her words had such a ring of truth in them 
that no amount of persuasion could have convinced 
him to the contrary; and in the depth of his heart the 
old man wished he had been guided by his own inclin- 
ation, and not allowed the influence of Mr. Deswald 
to turn him from his purpose in regard to a certain 
matter which meant a great deal to Mrs. Sinclair. 
However, Dorotlw was in total ignorance of this, or 
she might have played her cards better in the game 
that followed, instead of rushing so precipitately to 
her fate. 

After the third day on board the “Berlin” Mr. Sin- 
clair recovered from his attack of seasickness and was 
able to join his bride on deck. Dorothy expressed her- 
self as delighted, but more than one of the passengers 
noticed the bored look on her face whenever her hus- 
band appeared. 

To a certain young lady with whom she had formed 
an acquaintance she conflded that she had not been ac- 
customed to have her footsteps dogged by an old fogy 
Acho wanted to wrap her in blankets if she ventured 
outside her stateroom. Such solicitous attention was 
the last thing Dorothy Sinclair desired, and she was 
not long in coming to the conclusion that every one on 
l>oard thought her a very foolish woman for throwing 
away so much youth and beauty upon an insipid old 
man, when there were hearts as young as her own 
ready to shed their last drop of blood for the sake of a 
smile from such perfect lips as hers. In fact, this had 
been told her by a handsome young knight, who paced 
the deck each morning in order to receive her flrst 
greeting. At flrst it had only been a nod and a smile; 


117 


later it was a pleasant ^^good morning/’ and finally a 
five minutes’ tete-a-tete before the other passengers 
were astir, and Dorothy would go down to breakfast 
with a flush on her face and a light in her eyes, called 
there by some subtle power which had never been exor- 
cised over her by any human being before. A seasick 
husband was no barrier to these early morning meet- 
ings, and by the time Mr. Sinclair was out again Dor- 
othy had succeeded in thoroughly captivating the 
3'Oung man, to say nothing of her own feelings in the 
matter, and the old man never once dreamed of con- 
necting suspicion with his wife’s early rising. Surely 
she had a right to claim one-half an hour to enjoy the 
sea breezes when the rest of the day was entirely sacri- 
ficed to his comfort. Tripping up the stairs on the fifth 
morning of their voyage, Dorothy felt as though she 
were treading on air. She was gayly humming a fa- 
vorite air and glancing across the deck to the spot 
which had become a trysting-place, when an unfamil- 
iar object caught her. view. A man, apparently old and 
infirm, was seated in one of the deck-chairs; he wore 
a heavy overcoat, and kept the collar turned closely up 
about his ears; a broad-brimmed cap was pulled down 
over his eyes, and he kept his gaze fixed steadily upon 
the ocean. 

^^Evidentl}" an old crank who expects to be in- 
spired with some lofty idea by watching the sun rise 
over the sea,” muttered Dorothy, as she crossed the 
deck to Carl Wilmerding’s side. The two shook hands 
and the ^^old crank” drew his collar up closer. 

''He is probably afraid of taking cold,” laughed Carl, 
with a jerk of the head in the old man’s direction, and 
the next moment the conversation had drifted to 
another and more interesting subject, and the stranger 
was forgotten. However, he had not forgotten the in- 
teresting couple, but kept his eye on them until he w^as 
satisfied that Mrs. James Sinclair was not above the 
pleasure of a little flirtation, and the young artist was 
hopelessly in love with the charming bride. 

"So much for the mating of May and December,” he 


118 


murmured under liis breath, and as Dorothy waved her 
hand in parting he heard her say regretfully: 

suppose this Avill be our last private tete-a-tete, 
Carl. Mr. Sinclair is quite himself again, and will 
doubtless be on deck at an early hour for the remainder 
of our voyage, but I shall always look back upon this 
as the most pleasant hour of my honeymoon.’’ 

Carl looked into the handsome face with a signifi- 
cant smile. 

^‘We shall meet again, Dorothy,” he said, ^^regard- 
less of opposing forces.” 

Mrs. Sinclair returned to her stateroom and the artist 
As^as left alone, AAdiile the oddly dressed stranger again 
directed his gaze across the expanse of Avaters and 
congratulated himself upon having learned hov>" much 
the charming bride of the millionaire cared for her dot- 
ing old husband. 

When Dorothy linked her arm in that of Mr. Sinclair 
to go down to breakfast, the old man looked adoringly 
into her fresh young face, so full of life and beauty, 
and said tenderly, ^‘My dear, this ocean trip is doing 
.■5011 a world of good. I neA^er saAV such an exquisite 
( olor as you have in your cheeks this morning.” 

belieA^e I told you a feAV days since that I was 
never so happy as when I am on the water,” she re- 
plied, with a beAvitching smile. 

^‘So you did, my love. I shall remember that in the 
future and give yon the advantage of every trip pos- 
sible.” 

To this Dorothy did not reply. She felt that no other 
trip could ever be quite the same as this, since no other 
trip could afford her the pleasure of becoming 
acquainted with Carl. The young German had cer- 
tainly exerted the poAA^er of some strange fascination 
over her. 

^‘Who is that young man boAving to you?” asked Mr. 
Sinclair, half an hour later as they Avere promenading 
on deck. 

^^Who?” asked Dorothy, absently. ^^Oh, I see, the 
gentleman in dark blue cheviot. That is Mr. Wilmerd- 
ing, an artist. He is the gentleman I told you so kindly 


119 


found my wedding ring when it dropped from my hand 
the other day. By the way, I must have a guard for it. 
T have been compelled to lay it aside for the past few 
days on account of its so frequently dropping off.’’ 

“I should think my superstitious little wife would 
feel bad over that,” said Mr. Sinclair teasingly. 

^^So I do,” replied Dorothy, ^ffrom the fact that 1 
miss it very much; but I assure you I have too much 
faith in my husband to let thoughts of fear disturb 
my mind in regard to the future.” 

‘^That is sweet assurance, my love,” said Mr. Sin- 
clair, giving the dainty little hand that lay on his arm 
a rapturous squeeze, and a second time his heart smote 
him for having allowed a third person to have per- 
suaded him to delay a duty he owed his wife, and he 
resolved that the matter should be attended to at the 
earliest opportunity. 

By exercising a little diplomatic cunning, Dorothy 
managed to get near the artist, and with a look of in- 
nocent surprise she paused and said: 

^^Good morning, Mr. Wilmerding;” then turning to 
lier husband, she added, ^‘Mr. Sinclair, allow me to 
present the gentleman who so kindly rescued my ring 
from falling overboard. Mr. Wilmerding, Mr. Sin- 
clair.” 

The two gentlemen shook hands and Mr. Sinclair 
expressed his pleasure at meeting a gentleman who 
had rendered such kind service to his wife, and, with 
the natural faith inherent to his southern nature, was 
at once won over by the boyish frankness of the 3 ^oung 
man’s face. 

^^My wife informs me that you are an artist,” he 
said. 

^^Yes, sir,” replied Carl, ^dt is my pleasure to be 
such.” 

should think one would find a vast field for the 
exercise of one’s mind in such a profession,” chimed 
in Dorothy. 

^‘Bather say it is the reproduction of Nature’s beau- 
ties that makes our profession but a delightful amuse- 
ment, Mrs. Sinclair,” replied Carl. 


120 


Before they parted Carl had confided his plans to 
Mr. Sinclair, and received an invitation to visit his 
friends at the Villa Francaise, a charming little sub- 
urban cottage they had hired just outside the gay city 
of Paris, and last, but not least, Mr. Sinclair had en- 
gaged him to paint his wife^s portrait. In short, the 
old man had allowed himself to drift along with the 
tide, not knowing whither it would land him, and the 
evil genius, who never leaves us, smiled complacently 
over the admirable working of his plans. 

That night Mr. Sinclair complained of a slight head- 
ache, and retired early, but Dorothy declared that the 
night was simply perfect, the moonlight divine, and 
begged to be allowed to go on deck for an hour or so. 
After some persuasion her husband gave a somewhat 
reluctant consent, and Dorothy had her way, but until 
the day of her death she never forgot the pain it 
brought her. 

The sea looked like a sea of silver under the soft, 
clear light of the September moon, and the low, sweet 
murmur of the waves as the vessel ploughed her way 
through their caps of foam, sounded like a lullaby 
from the lips of some gentle mother soothing her babe 
to rest. The very air seemed to breathe a benediction, 
and the heart of the worldly woman was touched by 
it to a depth that even she had never credited herself 
with possessing. She saw before her in the calm glory 
of the night the illimitable opportunity she had for 
doing good, she saw as in a vision the beauty of a truly 
noble life, and from the inmost depth of her soul she 
meant to start out on the starry path revealed to her, 
to live for the remainder of her life in such a way as 
to atone for the past. 

Her own name, uttered in a muffled whisper, caused 
her to turn, and she saw before her the stranger who 
had occupied a chair on deck when she went out to 
meet Carl in the morning. He no longer had his coat 
collar turned up close to his ears, and the cap he wore 
was tilted back from his massive brow, clearly reveal- 
ing his steel^^-gray eyes, which looked almost green in 


121 

the light of the moon. A cynical smile hovered around 
his mouth as he said: 

warned you, Dorothy Merlebank, and you defied 
me. 1 am here to carry out my threat. What have you 
to say?’^ 

Dorothy staggered and had to catch at the railing 
for support. With all her clever scheming she had 
failed to outwit him. She had been pursued and now 
all would be lost! Before her stood Baron Stanley 
Von Floville! 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE ^EW PATIENT AT ''THE HOME SAN- 
ITARIUM.” 

WHEN Jack Dumbarton sent for old Peter to meet 
him outside the grounds of "Glymont” Joshua, the er- 
rand boy, happened to hear the message delivered by 
the cab-man, and, thinking there was a chance to earn 
an extra dollar by imparting his knowledge to Dr. 
Merlebank, he went at once to him and gave a full ac- 
count of what he had heard, adding as much to the 
story as he thought necessary to give it the appearance 
of a A^ery mysterious meeting. The result was that 
Joshua got the appointment to listen, himself unseen, 
to all that passed betAveen old Peter and the young 
lawyer, and to report to the Doctor as soon as the in- 
terview Avas ended. Joshua really caught A^ery little 
of the conversation, but Avith Avhat he did hear and 
Avhat he added the story he presented to the Doctor 
Avas enough to make the little man tremble in his 
shoes. True to his expectations, Joshua had a shining 
gold dollar in his pocket Avhen he finished his Avork, 
Avith the promise of an additional one for eA’^ery bit 
of important information he could furnish, and it is 
needless to add that Joshua kept his ears and eyes 
open thereafter, acting not onh- as a spy for the Doc- 
tor, but for Baron Yon Floville as AA^ell. In short, the 
errand boy was serving tAvo masters and caring little 
for the Avelfare of either so long as the clink of gold 
rattled musically in his OAvn pockets. 

It Avas rather strange that Dr. Merlebank should 
interest himself in the movements of Jack Dumbarton 
after the death of Marguerite, and it Avas especially 
odd that he should continue to do so after his OAAm 


123 


daughter’s marriage to the millionaire. It was the day 
that he learned of Jack^s intention to leave Washing- 
ton that he telegraphed to Dr. Garrison to admit no 
new patient to the ^‘Hoine Sanitarium’’ until he heard 
further from him. What the celebrated English phy- 
sician had to fear from such an event was certainly an 
unanswerable question. There was certainly nothing 
very formidable looking about the two old people, Mr. 
and Mrs. Valwin, who had been admitted upon Dr. 
Merlebank’s recommendation only an hour before the 
telegram arrived, and granting that there had been, it 
was too late already to alter matters, as the old man 
had paid in advance for the first month’s treatment for 
his wife and his own board, and furthermore, ready 
funds did not often come amiss in this exclusive insti- 
tution. 

As soon as dinner was over Dr. Garrison proposed 
that tliey adjourn to tlie parlor where they might enjoy 
the breeze from the lake, and the old people readily 
acquiesced. Passing through the hall he paused before 
a handsome painting which he wished to show Mrs. 
Yalwin, who had expressed herself as very much de- 
voted to art. In explaining the principal figures of 
the picture he had occasion to pass his hand before 
her eyes several times. Once these objects had been 
pointed out to her the old lady seemed to understand 
in an instant that which but a moment before had ap- 
X>eared inexplicable to her. At a single reference to 
the subject Mr. Yalwin understood the painting and 
informed his host that he had seen the original copy at 
the Paris Salon. 

Both Mr. Yalwin and his wife were delighted when 
Dr. Garrison invited them to accompany himself and 
party on a sail over the lake. On board the Doctor s 
little sailing craft, the ‘"Althea,” they were introduced 
to Mr. Hilburn, Mrs. Stafford and her daughter Daisy. 
The afternoon was enjoyed by every one, and as they 
were returning to the Sanitarium Dr. Garrison said 
to Mr. Yalwin : 

“My dear sir, in the brief time I have known your 
wife, *! have ascertained the cause of her derangement 


124 


and I think I can safely say in one month from now 
she will be entirely restored.’^ 

^^Restore her in a month and I will double your fee,’’ 
replied Mr. Valwin. ^^She has been this way so long 
that I have almost given up hope.” 

^^You need no longer fear,” said the Doctor, ^^once 
the cause is removed she will no longer suffer from 
the effect.” 

The demented woman had shown a great fascination 
for Mrs. Stafford’s pretty daughter, and desired to ac- 
company her everywhere. 

Dr. Garrison allowed his patients to wander at will 
through the grounds of the Sanitarium, and he often 
declared that his great success was largely due to the 
fact that he gave every one permission to follow their 
own inclinations. And, strange to say, Daisy Stafford 
had also developed a strong liking for Mrs. Valwin. 
They would talk together for hours, never appearing 
to grow tired of each other’s society. 

once had a beautiful daughter,” said Mrs. Valwin 
to her one day, “and you remind me of her. She had 
just such sea-blue eyes and long black hair, beautiful 
silky hair that fell in rippling curls to her waist. Oh, 
she was such a sweet, gentle creature, with never a 
harsh word for anybody, and it was so hard to give her 
up.” 

“Did she die, Mrs. Valwin?” asked Daisy, softly. 

“No, my dear, she did not die, but the cruel doctors 
took her aAvay from me and buried her in the dark, 
damp, cold ground, and I shall never see her any more. 
There were flowers; oh, so many beautiful white flow- 
ers piled ui) on her bosom, but what good could they 
do her when she could not see them deep down in the 
cold, damp earth?” 

“I am sure she could see them, Mrs. Valwin, because 
I remember being in a cold, dark place once; it must 
have been when the ship went down, because I cannot 
remember clearly, but there were beautiful flowers all 
around me, and I knoAV they kept me from feeling 
afraid. I had always loved them before, but they 
seemed to be my friends at that time, and if they were 


125 


to put me under the ground now I should always want 
flowers to grow over my grave. I have told this to Dr. 
Oarrison, but he says it is only a beautiful dream I 
had because I love the flowers so.’’ 

^‘Do you have such dreams often, my child?” 

^^No, not often,” replied Daisy, ^‘and when I do my 
headaches so afterward that I almost go crazy. I think 
I had one the morning you came; I fancied I was a very 
rich young lady, and some one w^as trying to rob me. 
Just think how absurd it was, when I have no money 
at all, and poor mamma scarcely has enough to keep us 
in comfort.” 

Mrs. Valwin’s eyes sparkled joyously. 

^^Should you like to be rich, Daisy?” 

‘^Oh, yes,” replied Daisy, ^ J should like it very much ; 
but you see I never shall be because poor mamma and 1 
are very weak little women, and we have no way to 
make money except by our embroidery, and when 1 
work now it makes my head ache so.” 

Mrs. Valwin leaned closer to the girl and said: 

will tell you what to do. Kun aAvay from your 
mother and come to me. I am an old woman and can- 
not possibly live long, and I will bequeath you every 
dollar I possess.” 

^ Jt would be very nice to be ahvays with you, Mrs. 
Valwin,” said Daisy, ^‘but I could not leave my dear 
mamma to go with any one.” 

The old woman turned her disappointed face away. 

‘^Ah, if they had only left me my own beautiful 
daughter,” she moaned. ^ J wonder if she is still living- 
under the white flowers? I shall go at once and ask 
my husband to take me to her grave.” 

Tim Mooney’s Jersey wagon stopping at the gate 
caused Daisy to start up. 

>^There is the man who always brings the mail. I 
must go and see if he has brought me one from — from 
— oh, dear, there it is gone again. I am sure there is 
some one who ought to write to me, but I always forget 
the name. Oh, how my head aches when I can’t re- 
member.” 

A short, stout little man sprang from the wagon. 


126 


and, seizing a heavy valise from the back, walked rap- 
idly" up to the hoiise. He did not pause or ring the 
bell, but ran up the steps, opened the door and walked 
in without so much as a preliminary rap. 

He entered the Doctor’s office with the air of a man 
Avho knew all about the place, deposited his satchel 
on the floor, flung himself into a chair and exclaimed: 

^^Oonfonnd it all. Garrison, what is this I hear about 
your admitting two new patients to this place?” 

Dr. Garrison raised his solemn gray eyes and looked 
serenely into the speaker’s face. 

^‘Yon have been correctly informed, sir.” 

^^Allow me to ask, what do you expect to 'gain by 
such a proceeding?” 

“Kepntation,” was the steady response. 

‘‘Then, damn it all, yon shall have reputation with a 
vengeance if you continue to defy me.” 

‘T have no wish to defy yon,” replied Dr. Garrison 
in his low, well modulated voice. 

“Then why in the name of all the powers did you ad- 
mit these people.” 

“Calm yourself, Merlebank, and I will explain. In 
the first place, they had with them written introduc- 
tions from you that I was to find room for them.” 

“Which should have been sufficient proof to yon that 
1 knew nothing whatever of them, sir.” 

“I beg pardon. Dr. Merlebank, but the letter was in 
your own handwriting.” 

“It was a base forgery, gotten up by some clever 
detective, and I dare say yon are harboring him right 
here under my own roof to turn evidence against me 
as soon as he can glean enough to carry out his pur- 
pose.” 

“I must say you are very suspicions. Dr. Merlebank, 
for a man of your experience,” coolly replied Dr. Gar- 
rison. 

“I have cause to be,” said Merlebank, irritably. 

“Not of these old people,” replied Dr. Garrison; 
“they are simply a pair of rustics, not in the least cap- 
able of practicing a deception on any one. The old 
woman is genuinel}^ crazy, and if she were not you nn- 


127 


(lerstand that I trust no one. The old man has gathered 
some education by travel, but aside from that he 
knows nothing.” 

should like to interview this insane lady and her 
illiterate husband,” said Merlebank with a sneer. 

^^The lady,” said Dr. Garrison, ^ds at this moment 
enjoying a splash in the waters of the lake. Come to 
the window and you will see her.” 

Dr. Merlebank followed his friend to the window 
and both men broke into a hearty laugh as they 
watched Mrs. Valwin and Daisy Stafford link their 
arms around each other^s necks and try to ^^float.” 

For some minutes they watched the ludicrous scene, 
and when they resumed their seats Dr. Merlebank was 
satisfied that he had nothing to fear from Mrs. Yal- 
win. 

will introduce you when they return,” said Dr. 
Garrison, ^^and we will very soon learn from the old 
man who it was that gave him the letter bearing your 
signature.” 

Mr. Valwin had gone for a walk and did not return 
until nearly dinner time. Upon his entrance to the 
dining-room Dr. Garrison said: 

‘Uome in, Mr. Valwin; we were just speaking of 
you. Allow me to present my friend. Dr. Jeremiah 
Merlebank, Mr. Valwin.” 

Dr. Merlebank shook the old man’s hand cordially, 
as he said: 

^^Good afternoon, Mr. Valwin. I am very pleased 
to meet you. I dare say you are the Mr. Valwin of 
whom I have heard my father speak so often?” 

‘AVell, now, I’m glad you spoke of your father,” said 
the old man. s’pose he’s a doctor, too, ain’t he?” 

^^Yes,” replied Dr. Merlebank. ‘^My father is a phy- 
sician and so was my grandfather.” 

^^Noav, if you hadn’t told me that I should ’ve just 
packed up and left this place before sundown, I’d been 
that sure I’d been tricked into coming here. My heart 
almost stood still when Dr. Garrison here called you 
Dr. Merlebank, for I knowed that the man who sent 
me here with my wife was a man twice jouv age. I 


128 


s’pose your name is Jeremiah, too?^^ questioned the lo- 
quacious old man. 

^‘Yes, sir,’’ replied Dr. Merlebank, ^ J was named for 
my father. I suppose it was in New York you saw 
him?” 

'‘Well, no,” said Mr. Yalwin, "I hain’t been to New 
York for some time. It was at a little town down in 
Pennsylvany that I met him. You see, I took my wife 
down to try the faith cure oh her but it didn’t do no 
good, and I had just about give up hopes when the 
old gentleman that was stopping at the same place 
we was found out what was the matter with my old 
lad}'' and advised me to come to Doctor Garrison.” 

"I assure you that you could not have consulted a 
more able physician,” replied Dr. Merlebank. 

"I know that,” said Mr. Yalwin. "The old lady is 
ten per cent, better, and she’s only been here about 
two weeks. Ain’t had a spell since the day she got 
here, and before she’d have un every day.” 

"So it will be through the medium of the faith cure 
that your wife is restored, after all.” 

"Well, yes, that’s so,” said the old man. "If it hadn’t 
a-been for that I wouldn’t a-gone to Pennsylvany, and 
if I hadn’t a-gone to Pennsylvany I wouldn’t a-seen 
your father and wouldn’t a-heard about Dr. Garrison. 
It seems strange, don’t it?” 

"It is simply a providential thing, Mr. Yalwin, and 
shows our Lord takes care of his own in all things,” 
replied Dr. Merlebank devoutly. 

It has been said that nothing is so pleasing to the 
devil as a religious hypocrite. Surely there was a 
broad smile on the face of His Satanic Majesty when 
Dr. Merlebank uttered that remark. 

Miss Flaxham did not appear at dinner, but kept 
her room until evening, when she took a walk through 
the grounds and sent a message to Dr. Merlebank, 
requesting him to meet her in the elm avenue near 
"the lake.” 

The Doctor strode down the avenue muttering that 
he was damned tired of this business, but he certainly 
could not have referred to the message he had re- 


129 


ceived, for he boldly took the trained nurse in his 
arms and kissed her when he reached the trysting- 
place. 

^‘My darling ^Delle, it seems like an age since last I 
held yon thus/’ he said. 

Miss Flaxham twined her arms lovingly around his 
neck as she murmured. 

‘^Oh, Jerry, how much longer is this exile to last?” 

‘^Not long, I hope, love. It all depends upon Dor- 
othy. You see she has affairs in her own hands now, 
so far as the money goes. She has promised me one- 
half if I finish my work inside of six months. They 
are in Paris now, or rather on their way now. I shall 
sail on the ‘Fulda,’ via Southampton for Havre next 
Wednesday.” 

“Is this safe, Jerry?” asked Miss Flaxham, ner- 
vously. 

“Oh, I think so,” said the Doctor, “and even if it 
isn’t it is our only chance. The old fool insisted upon 
^doing the Continent,’ for Dorothy’s health, when her 
frequent faints and illnesses was nothing more nor 
less than affectation, put on for some purpose known 
only to herself.” 

“Can you not coax them to return to ‘Glymont?’ ” 

“No,” was the dubious reply; “I hardly think so, and, 
besides, ’Delle, that fellow Deswald is in the way here, 
and it is not likely that he will have such a timely at- 
tack again this Winter as he did last. My chances for 
success are far better abroad.” 

“Jerry,” said Miss Flaxham softly, raising her head 
from his breast and looking tenderly into his face, 
“why not give it all up; let them keep their gold; settle 
down to a quiet little country practice, leave these un- 
fortunate people to Dr. Garrison’s care, and let the 
rest take care of itself?” 

. There was something magnificent in the woman’s 
-face as she uttered these words, and for a while the 
Doctor watched the moonlight play over her features, 
clear-cut as the face of a marble statue, yet withal 
wearing the rich, warm glow of perfect health and 


130 


glorious womanhood such as no sculptor has ever in- 
fused into the features of his marble goddesses. He 
could not realize that this was the woman who had 
been his accomplice in the most daring acts of his life, 
and she Avas advising him to lay aside his ambition, 
to come down to the dull, . prosaic life of a country 
practice. 

^^’Delle, are you mad?’’ he asked. 

^^No, Jerry, not mad, though I have suffered enough 
to drive me so. Do you think I can look calmly upon 
the misery Ave have caused and not feel the reflection 
upon my own soul. I tell you from the bottom of my 
heart I x>ity poor Jack Dumbarton.” 

‘^Confound Jack Dumbarton! I have heard his name 
until I’d like to trample him under my feet. Spend 
your pity upon some one v/ho is worthy of it.” 

‘That Avould not be yourself, Jerry,” said Miss Flax- 
ham calmly. 

“Don’t be a fool, ’Delle.” 

“Perhaps you will say I have already been one,” she 
said, “when I tell you what I did a feAV days ago.” 

“I hope you have not betrayed your secret to any 
one.” 

“Oh, no, nothing so serious as that,” laughed the 
nurse. 

“What then? Do not keep me in suspense.” 

“Briefly,” said Miss Flaxham, “Dr. Garrison pro- 
posed and I rejected him.” 

“Of course you did!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Does 
Garrison think for a moment that I Avill allow a thing 
of that sort?” 

“I suppose Dr. Garrison has no idea that it would 
make any difference to you one way or another.” 

“He’ll find out fast enough if he tries me too far,” 
exclaimed Merlebank, clinching his teeth and mutter- 
ing an imprecation which would not look the least 
well isi^rint, as he caught Miss Flaxham savagely in 
his arm^nd covered here face with passionate kisses. 
“Remember, once for all, ’Delle, that you belong, body 
and soul, to me” 


131 


might have asserted the same thing when you 
were devoting your attention to Mr. Sinclair’s heiress,” 
replied the nurse. 

“Nonsense, ’Delle, I never cared a snap for Mar- 
guerite Courtney. You know that without the telling.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


AT THE VILLA FEANCAISE. 

WHEN Dorothy saw that in spite of all her precau- 
tion and clever scheming in regard to her marriage, 
she was pursued by the enemy, her heart stood still 
in her bosom and the blood receded from her face until 
she looked like a statue under the pale light of the 
moon. 

see yon do not recognize me, Mrs. Sinclair, or 
rather should I call you — 

^‘Oh, for God’s sake have pity!” exclaimed Dorothy, 
throwing up her white hands with a gesture of de- 
spair. 

beg pardon, Madame; I had no intention of creat- 
ing a scene when I followed you out here,” returned 
the cold, calculating voice of the Baron. ^^To tell the 
truth, when I took passage on the ^Berlin’ I had not 
the slightest idea of forcing myself upon you until you 
Avere on terra firma once more, but unfortunately I 
overheard a part of the conversation between yourself 
and our young friend, the artist. What I heard con- 
vinced me that Madame was already learning that even 
golden fetters may be galling.” 

‘^You presume beyond your rights, Baron,” said Dor- 
othy, with freezing dignity. 

^^Madame will pardon me,” said the irrepressible 
Baron, ^^but the truth is, I am never above conferring 
a favor upon one who has my esteem, and I happen 
to be possessed of a few facts which might prove of 
untold A-alue to Madame if she wishes to rid herself of 
her present husband and become the wife of one who 
already holds her heart in his keeping.” 

^Wou are talking arrant nonsense, and I will net lis- 


133 


ten to it any further,” cried Dorothy, with a stamp of 
her daintily slippered foot. 

^^That will be as I say, Mrs. Sinclair, and when I 
have finished the story I have to tell you I am sure T 
shall receive your thanks. Now, in the first i)lace, you 
are dead in love with Carl Wilmerding; any one could 
see that at half a glance, and you are married to this 
old man, which is the one great barrier to your hap- 
piness. If you could get hold of his money and rid 
yourself of him at the same time you would gladly do 
so. Isn’t that true?” 

‘^You have no right to inquire into my domestic af- 
fairs.” 

^^Granting that I have not, I will proceed. If you 
could prove that your husband, Mr. Sinclair, I mean, 
was not free to make you his wife, rather than have 
his name dragged through the courts do you not think 
he w^ould give you one-half of his fortune to keep 
silence?” 

'G am sure he would,” replied Dorothy, growing in- 
terested. 

Would you be satisfied to accept this money and 
marry Carl Wilmerding?” 

^^Ye-es, I think I should.” 

Would you pay me fifty thousand dollars for prov- 
ing this affair?” 

^‘Fifty thousand dollars is a large sum of money, 
Baron Von Floville.” 

^^Not so large as the half million it would place in 
your hands — a mere trifle compared to it,” replied the 
Baron, calmly. 

^^Can you prove that Mr. Sinclair had no right to — to 
marry me?” 

^^I must have some satisfactory arraugement made 
before I confide to Madame the knowledge I possess,” 
said the Baron, ^^and I may as well say further, Mrs. 
Sinclair, it would be to your advantage to consider 
my proposal since your husband would doubtless be 
wdlling to pay fifty thousand for information I could 
impart to him. It is simply a matter of policy with me. 
I have no preference for either person, and shall work 


134 


for the side which pays me best and offers the least 
trouble, but in the event of my serving Mr. Sinclair 
you will be cut off without a penny, don’t you see? Ah, 
my dear, I have you in my power. I served your hon- 
ored father for a number of years, but thank fortune 
the game has changed; I have cut the Gordian knot 
and now I have both in my power. I dare say, Mrs. 
Sinclair, you remember the first, last and only time I 
ever had the pleasure of addressing you, and what a 
sensation you created by appearing on — ” 

“Hush, oh, for Heaven’s sake, hush,” interrupted 
Dorothy. “I neither deny nor affirm your words. Give 
me your address and I will communicate with you 
after my arrival in Paris. Until then I beg of you to 
let this unfortunate matter rest.” 

“I shall respect Madame’s wishes,” replied the Baron, 
gallantly scribbling his address on a card and drop- 
ping it into Dorothy’s outstretched hand. 

Lifting his hat and bowing a pleasant “good night,” 
he strode across the deck, and Dorothy turned her face 
toward the moonlit sea, which had suddenly become 
as a sea of liquid fire, bubbling and seething around 
her helpless soul, ready to consume her with its burn- 
ing breath. A wild impulse seized her to spring into 
the water and end it all, but a vision of Carl Wilnierd- 
ing’s handsome face rose before her and the impulse 
was gone. 

The following morning the oddly-dressed stranger 
who had been the cynosure of all eyes the day before 
appeared on deck, muffled up to the ears, with cap 
pulled down over his face and his heavy overcoat but- 
toned up to the neck. He was accompanied by a little 
child who wore a much-befrilled cap which completely 
hid her pretty blonde face, but her musical little voice 
sounded fresh and sweet as she prattled: 

“Oh, dan-papa, look at big waves.” 

Dorothy did not venture out until late, and when 
she did so her heart almost stood still at the sight that 
met her eyes. She could no longer mistake the Baron’s 
intention. Objects on deck seemed to fioat around her 
in a confused panorama and she was forced to clutch 


135 


at the railing for support. As soon as she was suffi- 
ciently recovered to trust her tottering limbs, she re- 
turned to her stateroom and did not leave it again until 
they reached the end of their voyage. 

After a day of rest in Southampton tliey continued 
^eir journey to Havre and from thence by rail to 
Paris. 

The ^'Villa Francaise’’ was a charming little sub- 
urban cottage within easy access' of the gay city, yet 
entirely out of sound of its noise and bustle. Once es- 
tablished in this delightful little home Dorothy felt 
that she could be happy there forever if only Baron 
\on Floville might be kept away. Mr. Sinclair was 
like a doting old father to her, exacting nothing yet 
giving all. By his order one room of the villa had been 
fitted up as a studio, and Carl Wilmerding was soon 
to arrive. At the mere mention of his name Dorothy 
would feel the hot blood mount to her face and the 
beat of her pulse to grow faster, but neither by act or 
word did she betray the secret which in two short 
weeks had become a part of her life. 

Two weeks went by without news of the Baron, and 
Dorothy knew that further delay would not be safe, 
consequently she sent the following note to him : 

^‘Arrange to call at ^The Villa Francaise’ at an hour 
when my husband is absent. Manage it in your own 
way. I shall remain at home all day. 

^^Dorothy Sinclair.^^ 

Nothing could have been further from her desire 
than an interview with Von Floville, but she knew' her 
only chance of safety depended upon it. 

A grin of satisfaction overspread the Barones Sa- 
tanic features as he read this message. He imme- 
diately dispatched the following to Mr. Sinclair: 

^^Mr. James Sinclair, Yilla Francaise: 

“Esteemed Friend: I arrived yesterday in Paris, 
and as I have only a short time to remain here I should 
be pleased to have you call on me at La Normandie 
Hotel. Should I be absent when you arrive await me 
in my rooms. Yours, etc., 

“S. Von Floville.” 


136 


Mr. Sinclair was delighted when he received this 
note, confiding to his wife a hope that the Baron would 
invite them to his castle, ‘^Floville-on-the-Rhine,’’ hav- 
ing no doubt but it was upon business concerning this 
estate that he had returned to Europe again so soon. 
Immediately after luncheon he ordered the brougham 
and drove over to the city. Dorothy declined to ac- 
company him, declaring she had a headache and meant 
to rest during the afternoon. 

The old man was scarcely out of sight when the 
door-bell rang, and the trim little maid thrust her head 
in at the door of Mrs. Sinclair’s blue-and-gold boudoir 
and announced, ‘‘Baron Stanley Von Floville.” 

“Show him in,” said Dorothy, languidly rising from 
her reclining position. 

“Well, Mrs. Sinclair,” said the Baron, when the maid 
had withdrawn, “am I to understand from your note 
that you have considered my proposal and are willing 
to come to terms?” 

“Yes,” said Dorothy, “I suppose you may.” 

“Very well, Mrs. Sinclair. I see you have taken a 
sensible view of it, after all; but before we go on I may 
as well tell you that I have decided that fifty thousand 
is not enough to pay for such a stupendous "task. You 
must make it one hundred thousand and I shall at once 
set about my work to establish the truth of what I 
have said.” 

“How am I to know but you will demand even a 
larger sum than that before you are done?” asked Dor- 
othy. 

“Oh, I pledge you my word not to do so. I fancy one 
hundred thousand added to my present income will 
keep Hie in pretty comfortable circumstances wdien I 
a7n ome established in my castle, Floville-on-the 
Bhine.” 

“I dare say,” returned Dorothy with a sneer. “It is 
about time you left off talking about that castle. Mr. 
Sinclair is already anticipating an invitation to visit 
you there.” 

“Ha! ha! ha! That is rich, Mrs. Sinclair!” exclaimed 
the Baron; “however, the poor old simpleton is this 


137 


moment awaiting me in my room, and it behooves us 
to complete our plans, lest he grow tired and return 
to his faithful little spouse. Do you agree to pay the 
hundred thousand?” 

^‘Yes,” replied Dorothj^ ^‘if you can prove this be- 
yond doubt, and without making public the facts in 
tlie case, the hundred thousand is yours.” 

^^Then you will please sign your name to this,” said 
the Baron, producing a heavy piece of parchment, 
drawn up in the form of a contract, to the elfect that 
Dorothy Merlebank agreed to pay the sum of one hun- 
dred thousand dollars to Baron Stanley Von Floville, 
in consideration of services rendered her in establish- 
ing the proof that Mr. James Sinclair, the supposed 
husband of Dorothy Merlebank, was already a married 
man at the time of his marriage to her. In default of 
paying the said sum she, Dorothy Merlebank, agreed 
that Baron Stanley Von Floville was at liberty to dis- 
close any information wluch he might hold in regard 
to her past life, provided she received from James Sin- 
clair five hundred thousand dollars, which she meant 
to demand as tlie price of her silence on the subject. 

Pale, but resolute, the bride of less than. a month af- 
fixed her signature to the paper, and the Baron gave 
vent to a chuckle of satisfaction as he folded and re- 
turned it to his pocket. 

Miss Flaxham was not there with her sound judg- 
ment to advise poor, foolish, erring Doroth3^, who was 
unconsciously paving the way to her own clestruction. 

^^Now, Mrs. Sinclair,” said the Baron, ^Sve under- 
stand each other. Do not forget to act the part of the 
injured wife, the innocent girl whose confidence has 
been betrayed, life blighted and all that sort of thing, 
when the proper moment arrives. I leave for Genoa 
to-morrow morning at five; that will give Mrs. Sinclair 
No. 1 an opportunity to arrive here not later than Wed- 
nesday noon. Once she has asserted her claim we will 
have comparatively smooth sailing, and one-half of 
Mr. Sinclair’s fortune is as good as ours. We can stake 
a great deal on his love of honor, you know. In the 
meantime, Mrs. Sinclair, you will hear from me. I 


138 


must now hie me back to ^La Hotel Normandie/ or our 
credulous old bigamist may grow tired of waiting and 
return before I have had an opportunity to congratu- 
late him upon his recent marriage.’’ 

Fully an hour had elapsed while the two conspir- 
ators were talking over their plans, and it required 
half an hour more for the Baron to reach his hotel, 
after saying ^\iii reroir’ to the dashing little bride. 

Hurrying breathlessly up the stairs Jie dashed into 
his room much after the fashion of a boisterous school 
boy, and stopping abruptly before Mj*. Sinclair, he ex- 
claimed, just as though it were the most unlooked for 
thing in the world, to find the old man there; 

^‘Why, Mr. Sinclair, this is a pleasure 1 hardly dared 
to hope for. Allow me to offer my congratulations 
upon the happy consummation of your hopes. Accept 
my wishes that you may have many long years of wed- 
ded bliss before you.” 

^^Thank you, Baron, thank you,” replied the old man. 

feel sure if the love and companionship of a true 
wife can make one happy I shall fully realize all your 
good wishes.” 

^^Aud Mrs. Sinclair; I hope she suffered nothing from 
her long voyage?” 

^^Oh, no; to the contrary, she enjoyed every hour of 
the voyage, is very happy and as beautiful as an 
angel.” 

^^Ah, Mr. Sinclair, I see you are still very susceptible 
to the charms of the fair sex. I have not seen your 
wife since she was a child, but I remember she gave 
promise of developing into a lovely woman.” 

^^The promise has been entirely fulfilled,” said the 
old man proudly; ^‘there are none fairer than my young 
wife. You must dine with us to-morrow at the ^ Villa 
Francaise,’ then you shall see for yourself.” 

^^That would be a pleasure, indeed, but, unfortu- 
nately, I leave for Germany to-night. Through some 
carelessness on the part of my solicitor matters have 
gotten into a tangle at Floville-on-the-Bhine, and my 
immediate presence is required there. However, I 


139 


hope you and Mrs. Sinclair will honor me with a visit 
some time in the near future.’’ 

Mr. Sinclair was delighted. Nothing, he declared, 
Avould please him better than a visit to the Baronial 
estate of the Von Floville’s, and he felt sure his travel- 
loving wife would be pleased to accept the Baron’s 
Ivind invitation. 

When Mr. Sinclair reached the ^Willa Francaise’’ 
Dorothy was still in her room, and did not leave it 
again that day. 

The early morning post brought a letter from Carl 
Wilmerding, stating that he would follow in a few 
hours. Dorothy turned away from her husband to hide 
the pleasure she knew was glowing on her face, and at 
the same time the old man sank into a chair to keep 
from falling to the floor under the horror of the news 
which a second letter of the morning post contained. 

^Tlave you another letter also?” asked Dorothy, 
when she could command her voice and keep down the 
rising joyousness of her heart. 

^^Only a business letter, dear,” said Mr. Sinclair, and 
the hollow sound of his own words made him shudder. 

The young wife made a playful gesture, as if to 
snatch the missive from his hand. 

‘^That is only a subterfuge, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, 
^‘which all men resort to Avhen they do not wish to ex- 
plain their correspondence. I have often had papa tell 
me the same. thing when I knew quite as well as he 
that his letters had not the slightest connection with 
any business affair. Now, I am quite sure the letter 
you have in your hand is addressed in a lady’s chirog- 
raphy; however, I am not going to let jealousy over 
such a trivial circumstance mar the happiness of my 
honeymoon, so give me a kiss and I’ll be off to look 
after the arrangement of Mr. Wilmerding’s rooms.” 

^^My innocent darling,” murmured the old man, as 
she floated like some graceful butterfly from the room. 
^^God alone knows what suffering may be in store for 
you, brought down upon your precious head by my 
blind folly. And yet, oh, God, I believed myself free!” 
'j'lie sorroAvs of a lifetime seemed compressed in this 


140 


one disconsolate wail. He unfolded the letter and 
read it over again to make sure that it was not only 
a dream, from which he would soon awaken. Ah, no! 
There were the plain facts before him in black and 
white — no mere figment of the brain in these lines. 

‘‘Ifr. James Sinclair, 

^Tlie Villa Francaise,^ Paris: 

Dear Husband: You, who willfully deserted me 
five years ago, will scarcely feel pleased to receive this 
letter from me. I say ^villfully deserted,’ and yet I 
have a wild hope in my breast that your desertion was 
not so much due to your lack of love for me as to your 
faith in the heartless wretch who swore to you that I 
perished in the flames when the Italia was burned. 
You thought I went to the play that night, but in truth 
I was with my poor mother whom you had forbidden 
me to visit. She was dying and I could not leave her 
alone. After the burning of the theatre I knew you 
would give me up for lost, perhaps bury some poor, 
charred body and inscribe my name on the tombstone; 
but my mother needed me and I remained with her, 
knowing full well that you would forgive me when all 
was over. In one week she was gone and I returned 
to Genoa, but my husband was gone. For five long 
years I have watched and waited and prayed for youi 
return, and my faith is at last rewarded by a para- 
graph in a paper which states that Mr. James Sinclair, 
the millionaire, and bride, nee Miss Dorothy Merle- 
bank, of Leicester, England, are spending their honey- 
moon at ‘The Villa Francaise,’ Paris. Just think of 
that, James! I wonder I did not go mad. Of course. 
Miss Merlebank, who is Miss Merlebank still, will re- 
turn to her father’s home when she knows all. I will 
arrive not later than next Wednesday noon. In the 
meantime you had better explain to her and prepare 
for my reception as your wife. Oh, James, in the five 
years of our separation there have been times when I 
was actually starving; think of it, and my husband a 
millionaire. I can scarcely wait for the hour when I 
shall be clasped in my husband’s arms once more; for 


141 


the day when I shall again be queen of his heart and 
home. Now, dear husband, good-bye until next Wed- 
nesday. 

“Your faithful and devoted wife, 

“Elia Chelini Sinclair.” 

The letter fell from the old man^s hand and he bowed 
his head and wept. 

“Oh, God, I who have held my honor as second to 
Thee alone, what have I done?’’ 


CHAPTER XVII. 


IN LOVE WITH A MAKKIED WOMAN. 

MR. SINCLAIR would have welcomed the arrival 
of any person who would divert his wife’s mind from 
himself until he could decide what course to pursue in 
regard to the strange news that Elia Chelini was still 
alive. 

could have sworn that it was her body I buried in 
Genoa, five years ago.” 

Carl Wilmerding arrived late in the day, and Dor- 
othy was radiantly lovely in happiness of seeing him 
again. Looking back upon the two weeks sbe had 
been absent from him it seemed almost a century, and 
she resolved that he should never leave her again. 
Mr. Sinclair was too much occupied with his own 
thoughts to notice the change the young artist’s pres- 
ence had wrought in his wife. He felt sure that the 
blow which was so soon to fall would kill her, and in 
the days that intervened between the receipt of the 
letter and the day his wife was to arrive he suffered 
the tortures of the damned. 

When dinner was over Carl expressed a desire to 
see the garden, and Dorothy consented to show him 
through it. She invited Mr. Sinclair to accompany 
them, but he declined, saying he had a slight head- 
ache. 

^A^ou see, Mr. Wilmerding,” said Dorothy, laughing 
merrily, ^die had a letter this morning, and I am sure 
from the handwriting it was from an old flame of his. 
Moreover, he has kept to himself all day; even at 
luncheon, which is usually our merriest meal, he was 
silent and preoccupied. He has never before refused 


143 


to walk in the garden, so you see I have some grounds 
for jealousy over that mysterious correspondent.’’ 

^^To-night, my dear, you have better company than I 
could possibly be,” said the old man, trying to force a 
smile over his wife’s merry jest, and as she passed out, 
blowing a kiss to him from the tips of her pretty 
fingers, he moaned, ^^Poor, dear child, the crash will 
come all too soon; her heart shall not be broken yet.” 

Far from looking at the roses and lilies as Carl had 
first desired, the two young people found a seat in a 
secluded corner of the garden where they could talk 
undisturbed, and it is very doubtful if the fiowers had 
a single thought wasted upon them. 

^‘Oh, how I wish we had met before,” sighed the 
artist, gazing devotedly into the fair face shining so 
white and spirituelle in the pale light of the moon. 

^^Do you, really?” asked Dorothy coquettishly. 

^^Do I? Mrs. Sinclair — Dorothy, it almost drives me 
mad when I think that only a short time ago you were 
free, free to love and be loved, to be happy and to make 
happy one who would lay down his life to win a 
thought from you, and to think I did not know you 
then, and only met you one day after it is forever too 
late. Oh, it is cruel, cruel! I feel like cursing the fate 
that brought us together only to show us the impas- 
sable gulf that lay between us, and yet I must admit 
that I never knew the meaning, the sweet, glad defin- 
ition of life until I read it in your dear eyes. Only tell 
me, Dorothy, that you are not indifferent to me, and I 
shall feel that there is something left to live for after 
all.” 

^‘Do you really love me so much, Carl?” 

^^Love you, Dorothy? If I tried forever I could not 
tell you how much. The adoration I feel for you is as 
deep and boundless as the starry space above us, as un- 
fathomable and infinite as the Supreme Euler who 
guides the planets in their orbits through the uni- 
verse.” 

Dorothy looked up in sudden alarm. Such passion- 
ate words had never fallen upon her ears before, and 
yet there was a strangely familiar inflection in the 


144 


voice, a light not wholly new to her in the depth of the 
young man’s eyes. And yet in her past there had been 
no such person as Carl Wilmerding. 

''You will promise me this, Dorothy, should that old 
man die, if you are ever free again and I come to claim 
my heart’s darling, you will not send me away?” 

"No, Carl, I will not send yon away.” 

"May God eternally bless you for that sweet assur- 
ance,” said Carl. 

Many a man in his place would have taken her in 
his arms and kissed her, but Carl Wilmerding did no 
such thing. It was perhaps not just the proper thing 
for liini to declare his love while he yet believed her 
the wife of another man, and that man one who 
trusted him, but he was only human after all, young 
and impulsive, and the voice of honor was not stronger 
than the temptress who, knowing all, still lured him 
on, neither knowing nor caring what the end would 
be. For Carl Wilmerding it could be nothing but 
broken-hearted despair. 

When Mr. Sinclair was left alone he read for per- 
haps the fiftieth time the letter which had brought 
such a fiood of remorse and bitterness to his heart. 
He never once thought to look at the postmark, so he 
only presumed it had been mailed in Genoa, the fair 
Italian city which had been the scene of his second 
unhappy marriage, and the saddest hours of his life. 

"Poor, dear little Dorothy,” he moaned again. "But 
for lier I should not mind it so,” and tears, such as 
only sorrow of the deepest sort can wring from the 
human heart, rolled down his cheeks like rain. He 
felt that he could never face the world again after 
bringing such sorrow upon an innocent young life. 
Alas! that such devotion should be wasted upon one 
so utterly unworthy. Days came and went and still 
that black cloud hung like an evil bird of fate over the 
poor old man, ready to pounce upon him and draw the 
life-blood from his heart. Dorothy watched him as 
his sorrow preyed upon his mind and taunted him with 
a thousand imaginable suspicions; still the old man 


145 


did not tell her, the excuse he pleaded always being 
that the knowledge would come soon enough. 

Three hours of each morning Dorothy was in the 
studio, sitting for the portrait which, ordered under 
such happy circumstances, was to be completed under 
such sorrowful ones. Mr. Sinclair came in to look at 
it once in awhile, but he always left with tears in his 
eyes, remembering that in a short time he would have 
only the speechless canvas to remind him of his darl- 
ing, while the classic mouth of the artist was often 
wreatlied in smiles as he thought the sweet face which 
smiled so tenderly up at him from the canvas would 
one day be his own. Fond old man! Foolish young 
boy! Could some magic power reveal the inmost 
thoughts of her heart what would you say? 

Wednesday — day of events, day of sorrow, pain and 
deceit — dawned at last; dawned with its roseate hues, 
golden sunbeams, and joyous bird-songs, just as 
though there was no such thing as blighted lives, under 
light of the King of Day. 

Dorothy sprang out of bed with a little cry of de- 
light. In a fev/ short hours she would be free — ah, well, 
let it go at that — and Carl would know it. Suzanne, 
bringing her coffee in, thought she had never seen 
Madame’s cheeks so rosy or her eyes so bright. 

^Tt is such a beautiful morning, and I am so happy; 
I feel that I must get out and sing with the lark!’’ ex- 
claimed Dorothy, smiling at her own bright reflection 
in the cheval-glass. Later, Suzanne declared she had 
never seen Madame so hard to please, where one beau- 
tiful gown after another was laid aside and a still finer 
and more beautiful one ordered, until the dainty cre- 
ation of silk and lace finally decided upon was fit for a 
queen to wear. Even the snowy lilies fastened in the 
lace on her breast were not fairer than Dorothy’s face 
when she entered the dining-room. 

Pale, haggard and thin, her husband was already 
there. Poor, wretched old man; he felt that he would 
rather die than to bring one moment’s sorrow upon 
that radiant, innocent creature, and yet in a few hours 
at best he was to see her life laid waste, all her fond 


14G 


hopes blasted, her young heart crushed, and it was 
all his fault. She had stood up before God's holy altar 
aud plighted her vows to him, and yet was not his wife. 

With’ just the sweetest gesture possible she glided 
up to him, twined her arms about his neck, and said in 
the most tender of wifely tones : 

‘‘I fear you are not well this morning, Mr. Sinclair. 
Did you spend a restless night?" 

slept but poorly, though I feel sure your bright 
presence Avill soon drive away any bad effects I may 
have suffered. No need to ask how you are, my love, 
when the glory of the morning is imprisoned in your 
ej^es, aud the freshness of the day glows upon your 
cheeks." 

^^Oh, I am always well. Well and happy, Mr. Sin- 
clair, but I fear you are worried about something, 
dear husband, and it is making you ill. Is it not so? 
You have not been the same since that mysterious let- 
ter came." 

Ah, it had come at last, and the old man felt that he 
ought in some measure to prepare her for the dreadful 
blow that was so soon to fall. But the words he tried 
to utter died on his lips. 

The entrance of the artist interrupted further con- 
versation of a personal nature, and when breakfast 
was over Dorothy hurried off to the studio and Mr. 
Sinclair saw no more of her until the hour of noon. 
It seemed to him that the earth must have stopped 
still on its axis at that fateful hour to listen. He 
thought the hands of the clock would never move away 
from that accusing hour of twelve. Just as the last 
stroke sounded Dorothy tripped into the library, her 
step as soft as the sighing of the summer wind, her 
graceful robes trailing after her in silken sheen, as 
though she were a royal princess. 

She flung herself down upon a silken couch, and as 
she threw her white arm up over her head the old man, 
who was so soon to lose her, thought he had never seen 
her look so beautiful. And suddenly a sound rever- 
berated through the hall, a sound that made his heart 
stand still, and Dorothy sprang to her feet. 


147 


Heaven, what was that?’’ she cried, staring at 
tlie doorway as if she expected to see some dreadful 
apparition enter. 

Surely there was nothing in the sound of an electric 
bell to cause such consternation. 

There was the sound of coming footsteps, and James 
Sinclair knew that he must face his doom. 

lady to see you, sir,” said the servant, who re- 
sponded to the bell. 

lady?” echoed the old man. ^AVhat is her 
name?” 

^^She would not give it,” replied the servant. ^^She 
said you were expecting her.” 

^^Show her in,” said Dorothy, sweetly. ‘Jt does not 
matter about the name. We shall soon know her bus- 
iness; some one begging alms I suppose.” 

The servant disapi3eared. The poor old man looked 
helplessly at the beautiful young girl before him, and 
at the same time a woman, tall, thin and poorly 
dressed, entered the room. She stood for a moment 
irresolute, staring with great, solemn, dark eyes at the 
man, then, with a low, strange laugh, she took a step 
forward, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming: 

^Hs this the welcome you accord me after mourning 
me dead for five long years?” 

Mr. Sinclair stepped back. 

^‘I believed you dead; mourned you, never!” 

The woman laughed, a harsh, discordant laugh. 

suppose,” she said, ^The heart which once be- 
longed to me has gone out to this dainty creature?” 
indicating Dorothy, ^Svhom the world believes to be 
your wife; however, James, it would be v/ell to make 
sure that one is dead before you marry another. 
Whether you welcome me or not matters little. In the 
eyes of the law I am your wife, as these papers wfill 
prove. I have come here to share my husband’s home, 
in spite of that creature who wears a fortune in one 
gown while I, who have a lawful right to your gold, 
am clad in rags. She — ” 

^^Hush!” exclaimed the old man; ^^dare to breathe 
one word of your vile insinuations against that inno- 


148 


cent child, and woman though you be, I will strike you 
down/’ 

^‘It is well, James, to talk about striking your wife 
for the sake of a — ” 

^‘Not another word, Elia Chelini; you dare not speak 
evil of the woman I love. Speak out, what will you 
have of me?” 

‘‘What will I have of you?” sneered the woman; 
“what will I have of you? 1 reply, James Sinclair, my 
rights as your lawfully wedded wife.” 

Until now Dorothy had listened in silence, but at 
this point she came forward, laid her white hand, on 
which her wedding ring gleamed, on Mr. Sinclair’s arm 
and asked in a frightened, tremulous voice : 

“Oh, Mr. Sinclair, what is she saying? Tell me it is 
not true; oh, my dear husband, tell me her words are 
false. What is she calling herself? Your wife, when 
I alone have the right to that sacred name? Tell her 
she lies, Mr. Sinclair, and send her away.” 

“Send me away — aha! Do you know, my dainty 
little lady, it is you who will have to go, not I?” 

“Hush, woman!” exclaimed Mr. Sinclair, “you will 
not dare to dictate to this lady. Keep silence while I 
explain to her. Dorothy, darling, I fear I have made a 
great mistake, but surely you will trust me until I can 
investigate this matter and prove to you that I be- 
lieved myself free to wed you? I once had a wife, dear, 
whose maiden name was Elia Chelini. I believed her 
dead, burned in the Theatre Italia five years ago, and 
as our marriage was not a happy one, I never made it 
known to my friends in America. I yet believe she 
died, and the marble shaft erected to her memory in 
the Genoan church^mrd will prove to you the truth of 
my words, and while this woman bears a slight resem- 
blance to my dead wife, I am certain she is an im- 
poster — ” 

“You think,” interrupted the stranger, “because 
years of pain, suffering and privation have left their 
traces and marred the face you once thought the most 
beautiful on earth, to put me off as an imposter. That 
you cannot do, James Sinclair, while these papers are 


149 


in existence. There are those who will swear to my 
claim, and you may yet be arrested for bigamy. Ah, 
that does not sound so well connected with the influ- 
ential name of a millionaire.” 

^AVoman, you lie!” exclaimed the old man, pale as 
death. 

‘^That, sir, remains for you to prove,” said the wo- 
man, with a scornful laugh. 

“Oh, Heaven,” cried Dorothy, tottering across the 
floor and falling upon her knees, “what have I done 
that I should suffer so? Not his wife! Oh, Heaven! 
this is terrible, and I trusted him, gave him my heart, 
and this, oh. Lord, is my reward. What must I do? 
Oh, what must I do?” 

Poor old man, the tears streamed down his face as 
he tottered toward her. 

“Dorothy, darling, don’t grieve so! I swear to you 
that I believed myself free when I made you my wife. 
Only trust me and I swear to you that no blight shall 
ever rest upon you for this unfortunate affair.” 

Dorothy flashed a look of indignant scorn up into the 
sorrowful, pleading face bending over her. 

“Don’t touch me, sir. Your touch is pollution, your 
love a shame. How dare you, who had a wife already, 
profane the sacred tie of marriage by taking unto your- 
self another young and innocent woman, vile wretch 
that you are. I shall never remain another day under 
your roof. Go to your wife, she is waiting for you ; I 
shall have my maid pack my things and leave with me 
this day for Paris. We can take apartments at an 
hotel until the arrival of my father, whom I shall tele- 
graph for immediately. He will see to it that you are 
punished according to your crime.” 

Mr. Sinclair stared at her in speechless horror for a 
moment. “Dorothy, surely you, who have been the 
sweetest and gentlest of women,will not be so revenge- 
ful now?” he said, falteringly. 

“If there was sweetness or gentleness in me you have 
killed it by your baseness, Mr. Sinclair.” 

With that she gathered up her trailing garments 
and left the room. The broken-hearted old man sank 


150 


into a chair, and Elia Clielini advanced to his side. 
She laid her hand on his arm and murmured, the 
dainty little creature who has shared your life for only 
a few weeks can be so hard, what ought 1, your wife, 
deserted and disowned, to do? Yet, James, I am will- 
ing to forgive the awful wrong you did me; willing to 
take you back to my heart and live down the terrible 
past, which has been so dark for both of us. Will you 
not help me to this end?’^ 

^^What you suggest, Madame, is folly. I recognize no 
woman as my wife except the sweet young creature 
whom I wedded a month ago. Even if you prove your 
claim to be true I will never live with you again. A 
Avoman who once deceived me could never hope to be 
ingratiated in my esteem again.’’ 

Proud, defiant, erect, the woman rose from her 
kneeling posture and with a wierd fiash of her sombre 
black eyes, she said : 

‘A"ou will repent of this day’s work, James Sinclair,” 
and without another word she turned and left the 
room; left the poor, sorrowing old man to battle with 
his grief alone. 

Meanwhile Dorothy had gone to her room and was 
busily helping Suzanne pack her trunks, and for once 
the maid was puzzled as to what Madame meant to do, 
but she kept her mouth discreetly closed, expressing 
not the least surprise wdien told that Madame intended 
taking apartments at ^‘La Hotel Normandie,” and 
would not return to the ^ Axilla Francaise” again. 

Elia Chelini Avent aAvay quite as mysteriously as she 
came, but she had soAvn the seeds of discord in a happy 
home and already the sweet calm of contentment had 
flown to return no more, and an hour after her depart- 
ure the bride of a month SAvept doAvn the stairs with 
haughty pride, entered her victoria and drove away in 
the direction of the city, folloAved by a van loaded Avith 
her trunks and boxes. Elia Chelini had accom- 
plished her Avork, Baron Von Floville had fulfilled his 
word, and Dorothy Merlebank was free, if the ties 
which bound her to James Sinclair could ever have 
been called fetters. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


A CRIMSON STAIN ON A FAIR WHITE HAND. 

A FEW DAYS after the events recorded in the last 
chapter Baron Von Floville again registered at ^‘La 
Hotel Normandie/’ and as a matter of course he soon 
called on his old friend, Mr. Sinclair, but the pale, hag- 
gard old man who smiled to greet him was l3ut a 
shadow of the former man, whose hospitality he had 
shared, whose home he had wrecked, and whose hap- 
piness he had destroyed. Twinges of conscience were 
rare in the adamantine heart of Stanley Von Floville, 
but the sight of this tired old face, aged ten years by 
this last grief, was too much for him. Pleading busi- 
ness engagements, he left early and did not call again 
at the ^‘Villa.” 

Carl Wilmerding, building his castles as he worked 
away at the portrait, did not know of the terrible trag- 
edy carried on before his very eyes, nor did he dream 
of the awful denouement that followed. 

He attributed Dorothy’s non-appearance in the 
studio to some slight indisposition on her part, and 
really felt a delicacy in asking after her. Imagine his 
astonishment when the following note reached him : 

Deah Carl: — I suppose you have learned ere 
this that such a person as Dorothy Sinclair does not 
exist, but Dorothy Merlebank is a genuine reality, a 
woman free to love and be loved even as you have de- 
sired. Come to me at ^La Hotel Normandie’ at 7 
o’clock this evening, and I will explain all. Until then, 
believe me, 

^^Sincerely yours, 

^^Dorothy Merlebank.” 


152 


And to the poor old man whose heart she had broken 
she wrote : 

Sinclair: — I am in receipt of your letter re- 
questing me to return to the Axilla Francaise/ and, 
in reply, I would say such a thing is impossible. I have 
written to my father requesting him to come to me, 
and until his arrival I shall remain at ^La Hotel Nor- 
mandie.’ You will oblige me * by deferring further 
work on my portrait, as I have no desire that it should 
be linished. Such a smiling likeness of a w^retched wo- 
man would appear to me as sacrilege. I am here with- 
out money, and in viev>^ of the fact that I owe my help- 
less situation to your baseness, I think it no more than 
fair that you should provide for me until my father 
reaches me. Kindly mail me a check for one thousand 
dollars. If jon will call upon me at my hotel I shall 
be glad to talk over the settlement of our unfortunate 
relations, and endeavor to arrive at some point satis- 
factory to both of us. I have no desire to drag my 
name through the courts in order to punish you, as I 
know my father will insist upon doing, once he has 
learned of your crime. I shall expect you to call at 
your earliest convenience. 

^^Dorothy Merlebank.” 

fancy that will bring him,” she said, folding the 
dainty sheet of note paper, and thrusting it into an 
envelope. 

A rai» at the door, followed by Suzanne’s entrance, 
caused her to look up. In very broken English the 
maid managed to make her understand that a strange 
gentleman, who looked very angry, awaited Madame 
in the salon. 

‘'Who is he; what is his name?” asked Dorothy, ex- 
citedly. 

“Monsieur would not give his name,” replied the 
maid. 

“Then you may tell him I do not receive persons who 
will not give their names,” replied Dorothy, sealing 
and addressing the letter to Mr. Sinclair. 

Suzanne delivered the message and returned with 


153 


the reply tliat Monsieur meant to have an interview 
with Madame, and if she could not grant him one in 
the salon he would see her in her private apartments. 
Dorothy knew full well no stranger would so persist- 
ently demand admission to her presence, and, with a 
mortal dread and terror in her heart, she told Suzanne 
to admit him, at the same time delivering the two let- 
ters to her to be posted. 

The guilty woman felt an extreme sense of relief 
when, instead of the mocking face she dreaded, the 
door swung open and an old man with snowy locks 
and beard entered the room. She smiled at the ab- 
surdity of her own fears, and, i^lacing a chair for the 
old gentleman, asked sweetly: 

^Ts there anything I can do for you, sir?’’ 

^^Ah, I see you don’t know me,” said the man. ‘^1 
have learned, Madame, that 3^011 are the wife of a very 
wealthy man, and my business here is simply a matter 
of five hundred dollars, which I should like to have not 
later than to-morrow.” 

^‘Sir, I do not understand,” said Dorothy, growing 
a trifle paler at this unexpected announcement. 

^^Madame, my words are very plain. I need the sum 
of five hundred dollars and must have it immediately. 
As 3^ou are the only person of my acquaintance to 
whom I could apply for this amount, what more nat- 
ural than the supposition that I should come to you 
for it?” 

‘Tf 3^ou have an idea, sir, that I am going to be hood- 
winked into giving five hundred dollars to a stranger 
who has no claim upon me you may as well disabuse 
your mind of it at once,” said Dorothy, frigidly. 

^^Do you mean to say, Madame, that you will utterly 
disregard my claim and send me away empty-handed?” 

^^That is just it, sir.” 

^^Then I will prove to you that you dare not do so,” 
and the next minute there stood before her, instead of 
the bent old figure with snowy locks and beard, a 
young man, tall, handsome, erect, with crisp, curling 
black hair, flashing gray e^^es, smooth-shaven chin and 
upper lip adorned with a silky black mustache, 


154 


The transformation had taken place by the simple dof- 
fing of a strange-looking outer garment and the re- 
moval of a false beard and white wig. 

Dorothy threw up her hands with a gesture of horror 
and dropped to the floor as though she had been shot. 

She was again confronted by the evil genius of her 
former days, pursued by the fate she had so persist- 
ently fled from! Would the day never come when he 
would cease to dog her footsteps? It was no trick of 
imagination. He was there in flesh and blood, while . 
she had indulged the wild, foolish thought that the 
ocean rolled between them. Why had ’Delle failed in 
her promise? She might at least have kept him in 
ignorance of her whereabouts. 

suppose you know now the claim I have upon 
you?’’ he said, with a diabolical laugh. ^Wou see even 
a millionaire’s wife is not always free from the petty 
annoyances that beset less fortunate mortals. You can 
meet me at the Champs Elysees to-night at ten o’clock, 
and you can bring the five hundred dollars or I shall 
seek an interview with your husband to-morrow and 
tell him all. Now, defy me if you dare. You will find 
me at the appointed place at the hour mentioned, and 
if you can afford to disappoint me I shall trouble you 
no further; but always bear this in minc4 Dorothy, 
when I remained silent and allowed you to marr}^ 
James Sinclair it did not in the least go to indicate that 
I was indifferent to your charms, but a man who is in 
such hard straits as I have been for the past two years 
will sacrifice much, and I have never lost sight of the 
fact that you will one day be a rich widow and — I 
wait.” 

^Y^ou are a fool!” 

have sometimes thought so myself, dear,” replied 
the young man, ^^yet never so great a one as when I al- 
lowed you to slip me two years ago. However, I bide 
my time.” 

"^^Oh, for Heaven’s sake, leave me, leave me before 
Suzanne gets back or we shall both be ruined. I shall 
do my best to get the money to bring you. Now go!” 

‘^Always the same imperious Dorothy,” he replied. 


155 


stooping to press a passionate kiss upon Dorothy^s 
white face. 

She gave a scream and threw up her hand to ward 
him off as though she expected her lips to be seared 
with a red-hot iron, but his strong grasp was too much 
for her feeble strength, and just as he caught her to 
his heart in an ardent embrace the door swung open 
and Suzanne entered. Dorothy saw that she must 
make some explanation or she was lost. With a play- 
ful gesture she slapped his cheek and exclaimed, 
^‘Don’t be such a foolish boy, John, and the next time 
you wish to surprise me with a visit don't pretend to 
be my grandfather, but act like a sensible brother and 
send your name up as you should. Now, kiss me good- 
bye. I have an engagement and must dress at once. 
Give dear papa lots of love and kisses for me. Come 
Suzanne, show Mr. Merlebank down.’’ 

This artful little ruse had been so innocently carried 
out that Suzanne was completely deceived, and more 
than once afterward she wondered why Madame’s 
brother did not call again. Dorothy was certainly 
gifted with more than the usual amount of cunning. 
Her newly appointed ^‘brother” was scarcely out of 
the house before Carl Wilmerding’s card was sent up, 
and u])on his entrance to Madame’s private parlor 
Suzanne was dismissed, and Dorothy, with the warm 
kisses of another still burning upon her lips, flew into 
his outstretched arms. 

^^Oh, Dorothy, my heart’s darling, tell me it is no 
dream; tell me that the sweet tidings I received but a 
few hours ago were really true. Tell me how it hap- 
pened and what has set you free, my love?” 

Dorothy hid her face upon his breast as she replied: 

^^Oh, Carl, just think what a miserable wretch that 
old man must be; he married me and had a wife al- 
ready; oh, how I hate him, how I hate him for deceiv- 
ing me so.”. 

‘^Dorothy, surely you are jesting; that old man could 
not have been such a scoundrel.” 

^‘Yes, Carl, he pretended to love me, took me away 
from my dear papa and brought me over the ocean 


only to learn that I was no wife at all, and it has 
broken my heart,’' wailed the little fraud, tears stream- 
ing from her eyes like rain. 

‘^Don’t grieve over it, Dorothy; he is not worth a 
single tear from your dear eyes, and since you are not 
his wife you are free to become mine. Will you not 
do so at once, dear?” 

‘^No, Carl,” she replied, ^^not at once; we must give 
him a chance to exculpate himself and the woman to 
prove her claim before we rush into a union that might 
not be legal.” 

^^You are right, my darling, we will wait, but you 
must ijromise me that you will be my wife as soon as 
this woman’s claim has been established and your 
freedom proclaimed.” 

^‘Yes, I will promise that,” replied Dorothy, with a 
protty show of hesitation and womanly modesty. She 
had a strange premonition that she would never wear 
a wedding ring placed on her hand by Carl Wilmerd- 
ing, but she kept this to herself, and the young lover 
left her that evening in a perfect transport of happi- 
ness. 

As far as her father was concerned, he was the last 
person that Dorothy desired to find out the state of 
affairs brought about by the Baron’s scheming and 
Carl Wilmerding’s appearance on the scene. She had 
indeed cabled to him, but the cablegram explicitly 
stated that he was not to sail until he heard from her 
again, as she expected, owing to the sudden develop- 
ment of difficulties hitherto unknown, to sail for Amer- 
ica in a short time. The afternoon post brought a 
reply to her letter to Mr. Sinclair, but upon breaking 
the seal she found it contained nothing but a check for 
money as she had requested, only for double the 
amount. She sent Suzanne out to collect the money, 
and, after ordering supper in her room, she began to 
make preparations for her drive to the Champs Elysees. 

Suzanne had just brought out her coat and hat when 
Baron Yon Floville called. He was jubilant over the 
success of their plot, which he thought was working 
admirably. 


157 


Dorothy was almost frantic. The hands of the clock 
already pointed to half-past eight, she had ordered the 
carriage for nine, and if she failed to reach the Champs 
Ely sees at ten she knew her last hope was gone; this 
dreaded pursuer would keep his threat, and once* Mr. 
Sinclair was in possession of certain facts connected 
with her past life there would not be the slightest 
thread by which she could hang a hope. Of the Baron 
there was no longer any fear; at least so long as she 
acted fairly by him. But there was not much danger 
of Stanley Von Floville being outwitted by Dorothy. 
He saw that she was restless, apparently very anxious 
to get rid of him, and with the politeness of a true gen- 
tleman he made his excuses and retired. 

The fact that there were two carriages standing in 
front of the hotel did not call forth the slightest sus- 
picion in Dorothy’s mind as she sprang into the one 
Suzanne indicated and gave the order to drive to a cer- 
tain street near the Champs Elysees, from which point 
she meant to walk to the appointed place of meeting. 
She was so taken up with her own thoughts she did 
not notice that a second carriage stopped as her own 
had done, and a man sprang out, folloAving at a safe 
distance behind her as she hurried along through the 
park. Dorothy had a purpose in view, and she looked 
neither to the right nor the left as she muttered under 
her breath : 

^B’ll stop this everlasting demand for gold, let the 
end be what it may.” 

A muffled figure started toward her. 

^Ts that you, John?” she asked. 

^^Dorothy!” came the quick reply, and the next mo- 
ment a glittering dagger was poised above his breast, 
descended with death-dealing force, the murderess had 
fled like a phantom from the scene and Carl Wilmerd- 
ing, her betrothed husband, lay prone upon the ground, 
the life-blood flowing in a crimson stream from a 
wound above his heart. 

As she darted through the gates a muscular hand 
caught her by the arm and the commanding voice of 
a gendarme cried, ^Tialt! Madame!” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AFFAIRS AS THEY STOOD AT “GLYMONT.” 

OLD BECKY had not overslept herself for years that 
she could remember, but the morning after Mr. Sin- 
clair’s marriage it was past nine o’clock when she 
opened her eyes with a sense of oppression over the 
lids and a dazed sort of feeling about her head. 

^Teter! Peter! Wake up,” she cried, ^^don’t you see 
de sun a-shinin’ in at de window, an’ not a bressed soul 
in de house astir. Phew! What is dat sickly smell 
cornin’ from every part of de house? Hit sholy can’t 
come from de flowers in de drawin’-room; if it do it 
smells wuss dan dey did when po’ little Miss Margie 
died. Peter! I say, ain’t you a-goin’ to wake up to- 
day?” 

Peter rubbed his eyes vigorously. 

‘^Was Ave up so late last night, Becky?” 

‘^No, you sleepy-head, git up an’ open de windows I 
tell you; it do smell sick’nin’ in here.” 

While Becky Avas talking she had also been making 
her toilet, and as she left her chamber she continued: 

^D’ll go look after the po’ little baby, an’ see if her 
pretty blue peepers is open yet. How she Avill miss 
young Mis’ Sinclair, but ole Becky ain’t go’ne to let 
de po’ little lamb suffer for some one to love it, no 
more’n she did Miss Margie when old Marse brought 
her here a teeny little child dat couldn’t talk plain.” 

Bending over the little bed in which the baby slept 
old Becky turned back the curtain and as she did so 
she smiled to see the impression of the little head still 
on the pillow. 

^^Mary is up an’ got de little darlin’ out wid her,” 
she said, turning to leave the room. On the threshold 


159 


she met Mary, rubbing her eyes as though she were 
still half asleep. 

^What makes the house smell so strange, Aunt 
Becky asked the chamber-maid. 

dunno, honey, less ’tis the flowers in de drawing- 
room. How’s little Miss Lillian dis niornin’?” 

“Asleep, I suppose,” replied Mary. 

“Sleep,” echoed Becky, “dat she ain’t. What you 
done wid her. Miss Mary?” 

“What have I done with her? Why, I have not seen 
her this morning. Aunt Becky,” replied Mary, looking 
at the old negress in astonishment. 

Becky’s eyes grew wider and wider until scarcely 
anything but the white was visible, as she held up her 
hand and cried: 

“Then the Lord bless you, child, somebody has stole 
our little Miss Lillian.” 

The child was the idol of the servants at “Glymont,” 
and as soon as they heard that she was missing pande- 
monium reigned. The house was searched from cellar 
to garret but no trace of the little one was found, and 
at the last moment Joshua, grinning like a hyena, and 
looking very intelligent, confided to his astonished 
friends that he knew^ where she was. 

“Then tell us,” cried old Peter, the tears rolling down 
his cheeks. 

“Well,” said Joshua, “tain’t no short story. Last 
night, pretty soon after de bride an’ groom left, I was 
Tvalkin’ along sorter w^histlin’ to keep from feelin’ 
afeard, when I hear somethin’ come along behind me 
like a man walkin’ on de gravels. I was mos’ afeard 
to look, but by’m by I turned roun’ an’ there stood a 
powerful tough lookin’ old man. Sez he, ^See here, 
young man, warn’t there a baby left up here somewhere 
a few months ago?’ ^Gimme a dollar an’ I’ll tell you,’ 
sez I, an’ out come the dollar, an’ I sez, A^es.’ ^Well,’ 
sez he, ^she’s my son’s child an’ I’ve come for her.’ T’m 
afeard you’ll have a happy time to git her,’ I sez, an’ 
he laffed. ^ Which room does she sleep in?’ sez he; an’ 
I show'ed him the window, an’ next thing I knowed he 
give me another dollar, an’ fo’ I could say ^skat’ he was 


160 


gone. Now you knows all I knows, but here’s the 
money he give me, so you see I hain’t lied.” 

In the midst of this recital old Becky dropped to the 
floor and wept as though her heart would break. 

^‘De bressed Lord took Miss Margie away,” she 
moaned, ^‘an’ now de wicked rogues is got de precious 
baby of my bosom. What dey gwine bring her here 
jist long enough for folks to love her an’ den take her 
away. ’Tain’t no sort o’ jestice about it, ’deed it ain’t.” 

Breakfast was served at a rather fashionable hour 
that morning, even if there were no one to partake of 
it but the servants, and in the discussion of the strange 
thing which happened Joshua was looked upon as a 
hero, though Peter censured him severely for having- 
imparted any information in regard to the child to the 
suspicious looking stranger. Later the matter was 
placed in the hands of the police, but nothing further 
could be learned, and little Lillian was as completely 
lost as though the earth had opened and swallowed 
her. 

Before night the decorations were all removed from 
the drawing-room, the house was all closed, and ex- 
cept for an occasional burst of laughter or the low 
melody of song from the servants’ quarters, ^^Glymont” 
was again wrapped in the solemn stillness that once 
pervaded it for ten long years. 

Peter, grown old and feeble now, could no longer 
do more than superintend the taking care of the place, 
but his great love for his master’s home would suffer 
no neglect on the part of his subordinates, and the 
lawn was kept just as smooth, the flowers bloomed 
just as freely as they had when ^^Glymont” was at its 
best and no sorrow had ever darkened its doors. Never, 
a morning passed that the faithful old servant did not 
wend his way with tottering footsteps to the family 
vault and place a bunch of fragrant, dewy roses, that 
she had loved so well, upon the marble sarcophagus 
which wms Marguerite Courtney’s last resting place. 

Peter was surprised, a week after his master’s de- 
parture, when Mr. Deswald drove over to beg the hos- 
pitality of ^^Glymont” for a few days. He desired to 


161 


read a certain set of old books, to be found nowhere 
in Washington except in the ^^Glyinont’’ library. 

In the name of his master Peter extended a welcome 
to the lawyer, who begged to be allowed to occupy a 
suite of rooms, last occupied by the physician, which 
had a southern exposure, and overlooked the Potomac. 
The privilege was readily granted, and the same day 
the laAvyer’s trunks arrived. He would allow no 
change to be made in these rooms, declaring they 
suited him best as they were, and as a matter of course 
he had his way. That Mr. Deswald had any other ob- 
ject in view than the desire to be away from the noise 
and confusion of the city no one had the remotest idea, 
and aside from the servants at ^^GlymonP’ no one knew 
what had become of him. It seemed as though Jack 
Dumbarton had disappeared from the face of the earth, 
but an occasional letter, addressed in a bold hand, 
found its way to the lawyer^s private box in the city 
post office, which seemed to indicate that he was still 
in the land of the living, since the old lawyer always 
remarked after reading one of them, ^^God bless the 
boy, heJl come out head and shoulders above them 
yet.'' 

These letters were always mailed on the train, and it 
would have been rather difficult to tell what part of the 
world they were from. That each of the men were cog- 
nizant of the other's movements could not be doubted. 

When eJack was ordered away from ^^Glymont" he 
felt sure that Dr. Merlebank had some hand in the mat- 
ter. When he saw the letter which appeared to be his 
own handwriting he felt doubly sure that some one 
was at work to destroy his good name and blacken his 
character in Marguerite's eyes. To such a villianons 
plot there could be but one solution. The Doctor 
wished to win her himself. After learning that Mr. 
Sinclair was to marry Miss Dorothy Merlebank, Jack 
felt a grave suspicion that the Doctor and his daughter 
had some part in bringing about the death of the 
heiress, and forthwith he became a veritable sleuth, 
determined never to give up the cause until he proved 


6 


162 


the Doctor guilty or himself wrong. Since he could 
not live for love he would live for revenge! 

All this he confided to Mr. Deswald, who was ready 
to lay down his life to vindicate the character of his 
young friend. 

Marguerite Courtney’s death should never be laid at 
Jack’s door if proof of his innocence could be estab- 
lished, as the lawyer believed it could. 

Knowing that so many complications had arisen in 
the household immediately after Dr. Merlebank was 
installed there, Mr. Deswald entered ^^GlymonC^ for 
the express purpose of doing a little amateur detective 
work, and he proved himself quite efficient before the 
drama was played out. 

A very odd looking cabinet occupied one corner of 
the room in which the Doctor had slept. It was all 
securely locked from bottom to top, and when Mr. Des- 
wald asked old Peter for the keys to it, the old darkey 
drew his wrinkled features up into a horrible contor- 
tion, meant to convey his great fear of the contents of 
the cabinet. 

^^’Deed, Marse,’’ he said, ^filat cabinet got in it all de 
Doctor’s implements, pizens an’ skull bones, what he 
brought from England, an’ I ’spose he took de keys off 
wid him, dough he was called off kinder suddent like 
an’ day may be in de drawer of de dressin’ case, ’cause 
dat’s where he used to keep ’em.” 

^^Oh, of course, if it contains medicines and the Doc- 
tor’s instruments I have no occasion to open it,” re- 
plied Mr. Deswald, shrewdly, and the old darkey said 
no more. 

True to Peter’s supposition, the Doctor had thought- 
lessly left the keys in the drawer of the dressing-case, 
and when the servants were all asleej) that night the 
lawyer took them out, and by the dim light of a care- 
fully shaded lamp, he began an investigation of the 
things the strange old cabinet contained. 

No one but an expert would have found the great 
number of secret compartments and concealed draw- 
ers, but Mr. Deswald had been called upon to perform 
this sort of work many times in his varied practice, 


163 


and lie had none the less right to the badge he carried 
in his pocket because the world at large iieA^er saw it. 
His name had never appeared before the public as con- 
nected with the Secret Service, nevertheless that order 
owed some of its most valuable work to him. The first 
thing he came across in the cabinet brought an impre- 
cation from his lips, more forcible because he did not 
often allow his indignation to find vent in such words. 
What he saw was nothing more nor less than a pack- 
age of letters, twenty-nine in all, the letters which had 
so mysteriously disappeared from old Peter^s carefully 
guarded box, addressed to Marguerite Courtney in the 
clear, bold chirography of Jack Dumbarton. The old 
lawyer would not read these letters, so full of the love 
and hope of two fond hearts, which was too sacred for 
other eyes than those for which they were intended. 
Touching them reverently as he did the flowers he 
placed on Marguerite Courtney’s breast, he saw that 
one of them was not inclosed in an envelope. Looking 
at the heading he saw that it was w^ritten in Helena, 
Montana, May 31st, 18 — . The letter itself show^ed no 
sign of ever having been unfolded. He turned to the 
last page and read : 

will not write again, darling, as I leave here to- 
morrow at noon, and hope to be with you not later 
than Friday morning. When I take another long jour- 
ney, for whatever purpose, you shall be with me. This 
month away from you has been as long as a decade. 

^L'^lways your own. Jack.” 

It was odd that the envelope was not there. Mr. 
Deswald carefully laid the letter aside from the others 
and began a search for other articles which might 
prove of interest to him. 

He next found, crowded into a drawer which would 
barely hold it, a small book, bound in Pussia leather, 
entitled, ^'Gilbert on Poisons.” A book-mark of pale 
blue silk, embroidered in real gold thread, ’Delle to 
Jerry,” wms inserted at a chapter, Vomica, its 

Effects and AntidoteV The book was an old one, wliich 
must have been out of print years ago. At another 


164 


chapter, which read, ^‘Tlie Most Powerful Opiate on 
Earth,’’ the page was turned down and a whole para- 
graph was underscored in heavy pencil marks, indicat- 
ing that this particular paragraph had been of intense 
interest to some one, presumably the Doctor. In the 
very bottom of the drawer in which this book had been 
found was a letter. Hastily drawing it out the lawyer 
saw what he supposed to be the missing envelope, but, 
upon closer examination, this contained the letter. 
However, both letter and contents would bear investi- 
gation. The postmark was in clear, plain characters, 
'‘Helena, Mon., May 31, 12 P. M., 18 — Drawing the 
letter out he saw to his astonishment that it had been 
written at Helena, Mon., June 1st, 18 — 

Rather conflicting facts to be connected with any- 
thing so accurate as the perfect system of our United 
States mail. Evidently the writer had not possessed a 
calendar. This letter the lawyer thrust into his pocket, 
placed the package of twenty-nine in the trunk, also 
the leather bound book, and a small vial of some col- 
orless liquid he found in the cabinet. 

He locked every drawer just as he had found it and 
returned the keys to the dressing case, and, extinguish- 
ing the light, flung himself across the bed and remem- 
bered nothing more until Peter’s rap on the door, 
bringing fresh water and towels, awoke him the follow- 
ing morning. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A FOKFEITED COLLATEKAL. 

WHEN Dorothy foiinT that she was in the power of 
the gendarme she made no attempt to resist him, 
but simply begged for his protection. 

^^Oh, my good sir,” she cried, ^^protect me from that 
horrid man. He has lured me here to try to force me 
to come back to him, and I can not go; I can not return 
to a life of abuse and beggary as his wife! Oh, heavens, 
he is pursuing me.” 

As if her words were entirely true, a tall, defiant fig- 
ure appeared upon the scene and a commanding voice 
exclaimed : 

^^She shall go back; she is my wife and the mother of 
my children, and however little she cares for me she 
shall not make them suffer by it.” 

^^Oh, kind sir, he struck me,” cried Dorotln^, ^^and I 
cannot go back to him.” 

^^Hoav dare you strike a defenseless woman, sir?” 
asked the gendarme. 

^^She belongs to me,” exclaimed the man, defiantly. 

^^Kegardless of that fact you will answer for your 
cowardice in the police court to-morrow,” said the gen- 
darme, as he proceeded to march the two off to the 
station house. 

The man who had so suddenly come forth to sub- 
stantiate the false accusation of the woman was no 
less a person than Stanley Von Floville, and Dorothy 
knew quite well he would pilot her safely over the 
trouble, so she made no resistance, but walked in front 
of the officer as though she had fully made up her mind 
to sleep in a prison cell. 

Once inside the station house the Baron put on the 


166 


defiant air of a desperado, and straightening himself 
up to his full six feet he muttered : 

^^See here, officer, I don’t want to sleep in this darned 
hole/’ 

^‘You are at liberty to sleep where you choose if you 
can furnish fifty francs collateral for the appearance 
of yourself and hidj to-morrow at nine o’clock.” 

Jingo, that’s about as much as I’ve got, but I 
s’pose I’ll get it back if I show up all right?” queried 
Von Floville. 

‘‘Oh, yes,” replied the gendarme, “provided it does 
not go for fines.” 

“Then, confound you, here it is,” he said, counting 
out the fifty francs, and taking Dorothy’s arm he 
marched out into the street as the gendarme said: 

“He’s been here before. I'll venture to say.” 

Once the Baron was out in the street he hailed a cab 
and hurriedly assisting Dorothy into it he sprang in 
after her and closed the door with a bang. 

“Well, my little murderess, what do ^mu think you 
will do when the thing comes to light?” he asked. 

“I have murdered no one,” replied Dorothy, flashing 
an angrj^ look at him and for the moment Avishing he 
Avere at the bottom of the Red Sea. 

“At any rate you have attempted it, my dear, and I 
fear the law Avill not look so credulously upon the story 
we told to-night as that half-witted gendarme did. A 
pretty mess you’d haA^e made of it if I had not followed 
you to-night. An eAul genius is better than no genius 
at all, and it must have been fate that led me to follow 
you to-night. Who was that felloAv you stabbed?” 

“I stabbed no one,” said Dorothy, “and even grant- 
ing that I did, it is no business of yours. Who hires you 
to spy upon my movements and give an account if I 
happen to take a driA^e to the park where everybody 
goes?” 

“Not at ten o’clock at night, Dorothy. HoAvever, it is 
bad policy for you and I to fall out, and I for one do 
not mean to be a party to such a step. What do you 
intend to do Avhen this case comes up to-morrow?” 

“Remain where I am; what else do you think I shall 


167 


do? What is a paltry fifty francs compared to what 
we would lose by appearing in court? I expect ^Ir. Sin- 
clair to-morrow, and if he fails to come I shall drive 
over to the ^Yilla Francaise’ and demand an imme- 
diate settlement of five hundred thousand dollars, and 
as soon as I have the papers in my possession I shall 
sail for America, marry Carl and live happy ever 
after/’ 

‘AVhat will you do about that other — ?” 

^^IIusli! don’t dare to breathe that hated name to me. 
What I would do is already done. He will trouble me 
no more.” 

^H)on’t be too certain, my dear; people have been 
known to make mistakes before now. I fancy when to- 
morrow’s papers come out there will be surprise for 
you as well as some others.” 

^A"ou talk in riddles, Baron.” 

^‘The papers will not. Here we are at ‘La Hotel Nor- 
mandie.’ Go in and go to bed, give Suzanne five hun- 
dred francs to swear that you have been ill in bed for 
two da^^s, if any one calls. See no one but Mr. Sinclair, 
or your Mend, the Baron. Good night and pleasant 
dreams.” 

When Carl Wilmerding received the stab which was 
aimed at his heart he fell to the ground, and lay for 
several minutes unable to move or to call for help. He 
did not see the face of the woman who attempted to 
murder him, but he could have sworn that the voice 
was the voice of Dorothy Merlebank, yet he knew Dor- 
othy Avould never be guilty of such a heinous crime, 
and moreover he could not understand why anybody 
should make an attempt upon his life. 

He had just scrambled to his feet when a tall figure 
appeared in the uncertain light, and hastening to his 
side asked in a tone he knew to be assumed : 

^^Say, partner, what seems to ail you? Can I help 
you?” 

^Gf you would be so kind as to call a cab for me,” re- 
plied Carl, tremuously. He had lost a great deal of 
blood and was growing fearfully weak. The man lent 
his arm, and they walked as far as the gate before he 


168 


noticed that Carl bad been seriously hurt in some way, 
and bis clothes were saturated with blood. 

“See here, young man, have you been fighting?^’ he 
asked. 

“No,^^ replied Carl, “I have not. I have been stabbed 
by an unknown woman, and I am now going to report 
the matter at police headquarters.^^ 

“What sort of looking woman was she?’’ asked the 
man, apparently much interested. 

“Oh, she looked very much like a woman whom I 
know she is not,” replied Carl. 

“And who was that?” asked the man. 

“The name of the lady I am not at liberty to dis- 
close,” replied Carl; “at any rate you would not know 
her.” 

The man laughed a mocking, sneering, incredulous 
laugh. 

“You think the Indy of whom you speak is far above 
such an one as myself, do you, my friend?” 

“I am sure she is,” replied Carl ; “but here we are at 
a cab, and I must hasten to have this wound treated, 
it is growing very painful. Many thanks to you, sir, 
for the assistance you have rendered me. Here is a 
five-franc piece for your ti^uble. Good night.” 

“Good night,” replied the stranger, holding out his 
hand to receive the money. Pride formed no part in 
the make-up of this mysterious individual, whoever he 
might be, always appearing just at a time he was not 
wanted, and seemingly possessing some supernatural 
power over the elements, and managing to transmit 
his presence to any point at will. Dorothy had long 
since come to the conclusion that he was like the genii 
of old, and shed all of his bad influence over her life, 
while she was helpless to defy him. She slept but 
poorly that night, and was up earl}^ the following 
morning. 

Suzanne brought her coffee and the morning paper 
and stationed herself at a convenient distance to await 
Madame’s orders. Leaving the coffee untasted Dor- 
othy unfolded the paper, and the first paragraph that 
caught her eye caused her to give an involuntary 


169 


scream and almost fall to the floor Avitli fright. It 
ran: 

Shocking Dged C'ommitted by an Unknown 

Woman in the Champs Eeysees Last Night. 

^‘Shortly after ten o’clock last night a gendarme sta- 
tioned at the entrance of the Champs Elysees was 
startled the sight of a woman, young and beautiful, 
rushing past him as though to escape from some one 
who appeared to be following her. Thinking the mat- 
ter a rather suspicious one, the woman was appre- 
hended, and immediately threw herself upon the gen- 
darme for protection, declaring that she was fleeing 
from a drunken husband who had cruelly beaten and 
starved her. While she was reciting her troubles the 
man came up, and with much swearing and rude man- 
ners, demanded that the woman return home with 
him; however, the gendarme felt that they would be 
better off in the station house, Avhither he immediately 
escorted them. Being rather averse to spending the 
night in prison, the man gave fifty francs collateral 
for their appearance in court this morning and was 
released. Less than half an hour later the authorities 
were surprised by the appearanc e of a young man, who 
gave his name as Carl Wilnierdiug, and stated that he' 
was an artist engaged at present in painting the por- 
trait of ^Irs. James Sinc lair, of ^Villa Francaise.’ He 
had been stabbed just above the heart, by an unknown 
woman in Champs Elysees. He has no idea why such 
a daring act should have been c'ommitted, as he has 
neither enemies nor friends in Paris, and can give not 
the slightest clew as regards the appearance of the 
woman. She was young, he felt sure of that much, but 
beyond the fact that she wore a dark cloak and was 
heavily veiled he can tell nothing of her. The young 
man was so weak from loss of blood that he fainted 
after giving in this evidence, and had to be removed 
to the Duverney Hospital, where he now lies in a pre- 
carious condition, and it is feared the wound may prove 
fatal. The gendarmes feel satisfied that the abused 
wife and the would-be murderess are one and the sanm, 


170 


and the drunken husband is her accomplice. Every 
effort will be made to find the guilty pair and bring 
them to justice, as it is believed the fifty francs col- 
lateral was only a blind by which they hoped to escape 
before their crime was made public.’^ 

The paper fell to the floor and Dorothy tottered to 
her bed, declaring to the frightened Suzanne that she 
was very ill, and ordering a glass of wine, she dropped 
upon the i)illow as pale as death. 

As soon as she had drank the wine she dismissed the 
excited maid, telling her if Mr. Sinclair called to show 
him up at once. 

She Avas destined to have a far more unwelcome aus- 
itor than jMr. Sinclair that morning. Less than half 
an hour after her dismissal Suzanne returned to say 
that Mrs. Sinclair’s “brother” Avas in the salon and 
Avould like to see her at once. Before Dorothy could 
reply to this the Ausitor had entered the room and there 
Avas nothing for her to do but say: 

“You may go, Suzanne.” 

“Well, my dear,” said the man, “you look as though 
cold blooded murder didn’t set Aery AA'ell on your 
nerves; hoAvever, it isn’t every murderess Avho can en- 
joy the luxury of her oavu chamber after such a high- 
handed game as you i)layed last night. 1 dare say it is 
an unexpected pleasure for you to see vac alive and AA^ell 
this morning.” 

“What are you talking about?” demanded Dorothy. 
“Your words are like so much (Ireek to nie.’^ 

“You vrere born for the stage, my dear, and it is a 
pity to Avaste such superb acting upon so unappre- 
<*iatiA^e an audience. Your assumption of innocence is 
fine. I refer to nothing more nor less than the Avork 
you undertook last night and in AAdiich you failed so 
miserably. You struck an innocent man, AAdiile I, for 
Avhom the bloAA^ aauis intended, came off scot free. I 
have always heard that the devil takes care of his oAvn, 
and, by JoA^e! I begin to belieA^e it.^’ 

“1 repeat that your language is all Greek to me. As 
far as trying to stab any one is concerned, I liaA^e not 
so much as been out of this bed for forty-eight hours.'' 


171 


‘‘Now, that will do to tell some one who does not 
know yon, Doroth}^, but not to me. I saw 3^011 in 
Champs Elysees last night. I saw you Avhen you stab- 
bed that i3oor German, and if you deny it to ^mnr dying 
da}" I shall swear to 1113^ words. You went there with 
the full intention of ridding 3"ourself of a cumbersome 
— shall I say brother? — all right, of a cumbersome 
brother, and instead of that 3^11 came near taking the 
life of your lover. How did 1 find that out? Just the 
same as I find out everything else connected with your 
life. By that act yon have bled 3mnr own heart. Carl 
Wilnierding is as completely cured of his infatuation 
for yon as though it had never existed.' ’ 

Doroth}^ looted at him in disgust. 

“To what does this nonsensical talk lead?’^ she 
asked. 

“Onl}" this, Madame,” replied her visitor, “I have you 
now completely in my power and unless you agree to 
pay me the sum of ten thousand dollars, dollars, do you 
understand? — I want none of your French friuir s, but 
good American gold — I shall deliver you f)ver to the 
authorities, not only for this attempted crime but for 
a previous one which 3"ou caiiried out, willfully, de- 
ceitfully and intentionally, and now 3^)11 are endeavor- 
ing to punish some one else for unconsciously liaving 
done the same thing. You see I am at the very bottom 
of 3"our motives. I know 3"our false heart to the very 
core, and yet if 3^11 will leave off 3mur great love for 
the world and its glittering bauble and come with me 
I will Avork for 3^)11, live for 3"ou, and make you happy, 
so help me God, not only for 3mur sake but for the sake 
of—” 

“Hush, oh, hush! You must not tempt me. You 
know it is too late now. Why did you not think of all 
this years ago, when it might haA"e been possible?” 

“Why did I not think of it, Dorothy? Who helped 
me to forget? AnsAver me that. I AA"as once an honest 
man. What I am to-day you made me.” 

“Don’t taunt me Avith my past,” pouted Dorothy. 
“I’A"e had enough of that in the past few weeks from 


172 


Stanley Von Floville. Next to you I think he is the 
bane of my life!’^ 

^‘Rather say your own wordly heart is the bane of 
your life, Dorothy; your pride, your love of ease, luxury 
and the sinful company the world calls ‘good society/ 
Had you been content to be the wife of a poor but hon- 
est man there were glorious possibilities before you; 
as it is — 

“Ah, well, let me go my way. One wicked woman 
more or less cannot possibly shorten the days of the 
world or detract much from the glories of the future. 
What you want is ten thousand dollars; if I can get it 
you shall have it; if not, you must do your worst. I have 
about reached the end of my rope. Your talk tliis morn- 
ing has unsettled me. If my body is picked up from 
the Seine some morning you need not be surprised. I 
have had about as much of this sort of thing as I can 
bear.^’ 

“Dorothy, it is not yet too late. Come with me. I 
swear that I have never ceased to love you, and I will 
rise for your sake from the depth to which I have 
sunk.’’ 

There was a world of tenderness in his voice, and 
unmistakable earnestness shone on his handsome face, 
handsome in spite of the traces dissipation had left 
around his mouth and in the hollow stare of his eyes. 

The tears rolled down Dorothy’s cheek as she re- 
plied: 

“No, I cannot. I have told you it is too late.” 

It is wonderful the softening influence a woman’s 
tears may have over even the most wicked man. When 
Dorothy looked up her visitor was crying like a child, 
and she did not make the slightest resistance when he 
bent over the bed, took her in his arms and their tears 
mingled together, as from one heart. What was the 
connecting link in the lives of these two? In spite of 
herself Dorothy found her arms clasped about his 
neck. A light rap on the outer door was heard by 
neither of them. Suzanne entered, followed by Mr. 
Sinclair, and closed the door after her. The old man 
looked from one to the other of the tear-stained faces, 


173 


dropped into a chair to keep from falling, and in tones 
so hoarse and unnatural that they could scarcely un- 
derstand his words, he said: 

‘^Once for all. Jack Dumbarton, tell me what right 
is it you hold over my wife?’’ 


CHAPTER XXI. 


AT THE HOME SANITARIUM AGAIN. 

DR. MERITED A NK’8 rage knew no bounds when he 
learned that Dr. Garrison had proposed to Miss Flax- 
ham, though why he should interest himself to such an 
extent in the affairs of a hired nurse was a question 
left unanswered. Miss Flaxham was certainly old. 
enough to choose for herself in these matters, and Dr. 
Garrison wms free to win and wed whom he pleased, 
and aside from the fact that he loved the nurse he saw 
that she would make him a most excellent assistant. 
Her ready tact and keen intuition had proved her to 
be superior to any woman he had ever known for the 
I>osition she held, and her power to soothe the poor, 
insane creatures wms most remarkable and second to 
that of Dr. Garrison alone. 

Dr. Merlebank wisely kept his feeling to himself 
until he was again alone wdth his fellow-physician, and 
then he openly challenged Dr. Garrison for an explan- 
ation. 

^^Confoiind it all. Garrison, Fd like to know what you 
mean by asking Miss Flaxham to marry you?’’ 

^What do I mean, Merlebank? By Jove, if that 
isn’t a question to put to a man. I meant just exactly 
what my words would imply and exactly the same 
thing I should have meant by putting the question to 
any other lady in the land. In short, I wanted to make 
her my w ife.” 

^^Don’t ever dare to do so again, or you will answ^er 
to me for it, you cowardly rascal,” roared Merlebank, 
brandishing his fist before Dr. Garrison’s face as 
though he meant to strike him down. ^^You, nor no 


175 


other man need try to win the affection of Adelle Flax- 
ham, for she shall marry no one, no one, do you hear?’^ 

‘^Keally, Merlebank, one would think she already be- 
longed to yon. May I ask what right you have to dic- 
tate to either Miss Flaxham or myself?’’ 

‘^To you,” replied Merlebank, “I have the right that 
your secret, which, if known to the world, would put 
you behind prison bars for life. Always remember that 
and profit by it. The right I hold over Miss Flaxham 
is no concern of yours. It sufficeth to say that to you 
and to every other man who may be fool enough to 
dream of her she must ever be a beautiful Atlantis, as 
fleeting from your approach as was the island of old 
to mariners who sought to reach her shores.” 

repeat my question, what is Miss Flaxham to 
you?” exclaimed Dr. Garrison. 

Dr. Merlebank laughed, such a laugh as might have 
fallen from Satan’s lips when, after his long search 
through space, he at last beheld the abode of man, 
newly created, and thither directed his flight. 

^A^ou insist on knowing, eh? I will tell you.” He 
added but four words, words that fell upon the startled 
ear of the listener as though they had been so many 
thunder-bolts, hurled at him from a wrathful Heaven, 
^^She is my wife.” 

^^Merlebank, you are jesting.” 

^‘No, fool, I have told you the truth that you insisted 
upon knowing. Do you feel any better for the knowl- 
edge? Kow dare to breathe to one soul that this is 
true and I’ll shoot you down like a dog.” 

If looks could kill, the flash of contempt that shot 
from Dr. Garrison’s eyes would certainly have felled 
Merlebank to the floor. 

^^And yet, you miserable scoundrel, you dared to 
blacken with your vile insinuations the character of a 
man as far above you as the most distant constella- 
tion is above the earth.” 

^AVhatever I may or may not have done you long ago 
forfeited the right to criticise,” said Merlebank, with 
his most stinging sarcasm. 

^Aly past faults, Merlebank, were not so great that 


170 


you can dispense with my present services. Take care 
that yon do not try me too far.’’ 

^^Come, come now, friend Garrison, don’t let a little 
friendly chaff upset your equanimity. I meant no of- 
fense. It is all a capital joke. Strike out and win Miss 
Flaxham if you can. She is nothing to me. To tell 
you the truth, I am in love with Daisy Stafford, and as 
soon as she is restored to health I mean to offer my 
heart and hand.” 

^Then why have you encouraged all this nonsen- 
sical discussion? You know I am averse to wasting 
time on that which leads to nought.” 

‘T simply did it to test you. I had often thought it 
would be a matter of impossibility to arouse your in- 
dignation. That was simply a clever guess of mine 
that you had proposed to the nurse. She had never so 
much as hinted such a thing, and if you had denied 
it in the beginning I should have been none the wiser 
and this little quarrel would never have occurred.” 

am not in the habit of denying my actions. Merle- 
bank, and I would take it as a kindness if you would 
not resort to such practical jokes in the future. Se- 
riousness is my strongest characteristic as you know. 
I look upon the work we have on hand as a great re- 
sponsibility, and I hope you will soon bring your affairs 
to a climax. It is not my intention to remain much 
longer at the Home Sanitarium. Never mind, Jerry, 
threats will not do this time. Your power over me 
ended when I entered this institution.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Merlebank, growing 
red in the face. 

“What do I mean? Kead that and you shall see.” 
He pointed to a paragraph in the paper he held in his 
hand, and Dr. Merlebank read the head lines. 

“Death of William Stuyvesant. — A Prominent Cus- 
toms Officer Dies Suddenly While Attending to His 
Duties.” 

“By his death,” said Dr. Garrison, “the last link is 
snapped which connects your life and mine. I am free 
to resign to-morrow.” 


177 


^‘Don’t leave me, Garrison,’’ pleaded Dr. Merlebank. 
you do I am lost. I swear to you your pay shall be 
high if you but help me to the end.” 

“I shall finish my engagement according to con- 
tract,” said Dr. Garrison; ^‘at the end of that time I 
leave for England, to once more establish myself and 
build up the name I have lost.” 

The entrance of Mr. Yalwin put a stop to further 
conversation. 

‘^Well, Mr. Yalwin,” said Dr. Merlebank, at once the 
polite gentleman, ^‘how do you think your wife is pro- 
gressing?” 

The old man’s face lighted up joyfully. 

^‘She’s jest that nigh well that I come in to ask our 
good doctor here if he don’t think I might write the 
children we’ll be home next week.” 

should think so,” said Dr. Merlebank, ^^but of 
course Dr. Garrison is the specialist here and must be 
consulted first. Eh, Garrison?” 

^^Your wife is quite well, Mr. Yalwin, and you are at 
liberty to leave with her any day you see fit,” said Dr. 
Garrison. 

^^God bless you, doctor,” said the. old man fervently, 
^^and, more than my blessin’, I promised to double your 
fee if you cured her in a month. Here’s the money, sir. 
1 s’pose we’ll be a-startin’ to-morrow to give the chil- 
dren a surprise,” and, addressing Dr. Merlebank, he 
continued, ^^\Ye ain’t rich, my old lady and me, but 
we’ve got something laid by for a rainy day, but that 
wouldn’t do us no good if she’d a-been crazy all along, 
an’ for ni}^ part I think Dr. Garrison deserves all I’ve 
give him.” 

^^Your wife has certainly been marvelously re- 
stored,” replied Dr. Merlebank seriously. 

Daisy Stafford refused to be comforted when she 
learned that Mrs. Yalwin was soon to depart from the 
Home Sanitarium, and begged to be allowed to accom- 
pany her, but to this startling proposal Dr. Garrison 
shook his head solemnly and declared it would never 
do, and as he fixed his steady gray eyes on her she re- 


178 


lapsed into something like obedience, though she still 
Avept piteously over the loss of her friend. 

Tim Mooneyes Jersey Avagoii,^^ being the most im- 
posing vehicle to be had in the little town of Belton, 
Avas hired to take the old couple and their baggage oA^er 
to the station, and Dr. Merlebank breathed a sigh of 
relief as he Avatched the red-painted wheels disappear 
around a curve in the road. 

s’pose there ain’t no message you’d like to send 
your father if I should run acrost him,” the old man 
had said as he shook hands with Dr. Merlebank. 

‘^Onl}’^ giA^e him my loA^e and tell him I Avill see him 
soon,” the Doctor had replied, and noAV he smiled at 
the thought of Mr. Vahvin delivering a message to the 
father who for more than a quarter of a century had 
slept in the churchyard where the heather of Scotland 
groAvs. 

Papers and periodicals AA^ere liberally distributed 
through the ^Jlome Sanitarium,” and after the depart- 
ure of Mr. and Mrs. Vahvin, Daisy Stafford Avould 
spend hours SAAunging in her hammock under the 
spreading oaks enjoying the current number of one of 
these magazines. Miss Flaxham would often accom- 
pany her to this delightful retreat, and Avhile she 
Avould busy herself Avitli some light seAving or embroid- 
ery, Daisy Avould read aloud to her. NeAvspapers Yerj 
seldom played any part in these morning readings, but 
once in aAvhile they would skim over the events of the 
day and discuss any paragraph Avliich offered any par- 
ticular theme of interest. 

The young girl Avas fond of society notes, though 
Miss Flaxham did not encourage her to read them. 

^'They treat of the giddy world, my dear,” she would 
say, ^^and a young lady aaTio has no means can never 
hope to enter the 'social SAvim.’ One must have hand- 
some dresses, fine jewels, horses and carriages, and a 
great deal of money to keep up Avith the votaries of 
fashion. It is but a hollow mockery of the real life, 
and often their hearts are breaking when they have to 
face their friends with smiling faces; often they have 
to dance through the livelong night Avhen their poor 


179 


bodies are racked with pain. It is all a delusion! A 
cruel, bitter delusion, such as one sees upon the stage 
where the poor actress plays her part with a radiant 
face and springing, elastic step amid her gorgeous sur- 
roundings, applauded by a delighted audience, only to 
faint from exhaustion, pain and weariness when the 
curtain has fallen.’’ 

^‘But, Mrs. Garrison,” persisted Daisy, ‘G am sure I 
have seen people dance as hax)pily as though their 
whole hearts were in it, and though I can’t remember 
clearly, since the shij) was burned, you know, I feel 
quite sure there was a time, before mamma was so sad, 
when I used to be just as happy as the day is long, 
and I suppose I must have dreamed it, but the dream 
was very real. I once had a beautiful, sparkling neck- 
lace of real genuine diamonds, and there Avas some one 
who gave me a diamond ring, a beautiful solitaire. Of 
course, it was a dream, because I was never engaged, 
and gentlemen do not giA^e rings to ladies unless they 
are. AVhat do you think of my dreams, Mrs. Garrison?” 

think them A^ery nice, my dear, but the aAvakening 
must be a great disappointment.” 

^^No,” replied Daisy, thoughtfully, ^dhat is the odd- 
est part of it. I do not remember them for a long time, 
as though it had been ages and ages ago, and my soul, 
which had lived in some other body, was reincarnated 
in this. At one time I could not belieA^e this theory of 
reincarnation, but I begin to think it probable after 
all-” 

^That is too serious a subject for a young head to 
ponder, my dear. It will cause silver threads to gleam 
among those raven locks before it is time.” 

‘^How am I to help it, Mrs. Garrison, when the 
thoughts force themselves upon me and I cannot drive 
them away?” 

‘^Do not encourage them and you will soon find they 
come less frequent. May I not hear my little love story 
now?” 

^^Oh, I beg pardon for having kept you waiting. 
Blame not me, but my treacherous memory for the de- 
lay. LoA^e and love stories have played such a small 


180 


part in my life that I am not interested in such things 
as other girls are. I never had a lover in my life.^’ 

Half an hour passed while Miss Flaxham listened 
to the sweet, low, well-modulated voice of the reader. 

As the story was finished and Daisy laid the magm 
zine aside, Tim Mooney’s wagon stopped at the gate. 
He had driven over from Belton to bring the mail. He 
also had on one passenger, presumably a new patient 
for Dr. Garrison. 

The little lady’s face looked young and fair com- 
pared with the snowy curls that peeped from under 
her bonnet, and she sprang from the wagon with the 
ease and grace of a school-girl. 

Daisy fixed her eyes upon the little woman and did not 
take them from her until the great, black doors opened 
and she disappeared inside the red building; then she 
turned a pale, startled face to Miss Flaxham and said: 

^^Oh, Mrs. Garrison, I am sure I have seen that lady 
before. Oh, how my head aches, how my heart beats. 
Tell me, who is she? I must know, I must know.” 

^‘Then come, dearie, we will go and see,” said Miss 
Flaxham soothingly. Yon have been reading too long, 
I dare say, and have overtaxed your eyes. Yon shall 
go to your room and sleep for an hour and then yon 
may see the new lady.” 

Miss Flaxham hastened to procure a glass of wine 
and by the time Daisy reached her room she was there 
with it. 

^^Drink this, Daisy, and you will feel better,” she 
said. 

Five minutes later the girl was asleep and the nurse 
hurried downstairs to make any necessary arrange- 
ments for the lady who had just arrived. Dr. Garrison 
arose as she entered the reception room. 

Allow me to present my wife; Miss Stockton, Mrs. 
Garrison,” he said. 

The little lady came forward smilingly. 

'T assure you, Mrs. Garrison, I do not feel in the 
least as though I needed an introduction. Mr. and 
Mrs. Valwin have done nothing but extol your praises 


181 


since their return, until I feel as if yon were an old 
friend. I am very i)leased to meet you.’’ 

“You are very kind,” replied Miss Flaxham, “and I 
assure yon the pleasure is mutual. Miss Stockton. I 
hope Mr. and Mrs. Valwin are quite well?” 

“Oh, yes,” replied Miss Stockton, “they are perfectly 
well, and can never say enough in praise of the ^Home 
Sanitarium,’ and as soon as I complained of feeling 
tired, run down, so to speak, they insisted upon my 
coming here to recruit, declaring there was no place 
so thoroughly conducive to health, rest and quietness 
as your delightful retreat up in the mountains of New 
Hampshire. For twenty-five years I have been principal 
of one of the oldest schools for young ladies in New 
York State, and I felt that I could not live without 
a little rest, so I resigned my position, saw my succes- 
sor appointed, packed my trunks and started for Bel- 
ton. Now what will you do with me?” 

“Give you a room, look after your needs and see that 
you are treated well generally,” replied Miss Flaxham, 
with a cordial handshake. 

“Ah, I see it is just as Mrs. Valwin said, you have 
room in your big heart of hearts for every one,” replied 
the teacher. “I feel grateful for having found such 
a charming spot to spend the autumn months. How 
delightful this place must be through tlie hazy Indian 
summer.” 

“You will find it perfect at all times,” said Miss Flax- 
ham, “the air is so invigorating that one finds it hard 
to feel otherwise than well and happy.” 

“I am sure your own face corroborates your words, 
replied Miss Stockton. “I have but one regret in com- 
ing here; that is leaving my pupils, to each of whom 
I am very much devoted.” 

“One naturally grows attached to persons with 
w’hom they are constantly thrown,” said Miss Flax- 
ham. 

Dr. Garrison flashed a quick glance at her as if he 
hoped her words had some latent meaning intended for 
his understanding alone, but Miss Flaxham betrayed 


182 


nothing. She was indeed a woman remarkable for 
concealing her emotions on all occasions. 

An hour later Miss Stockton was comfortably reclin- 
ing on a silken couch in the room assigned to her, Miss 
Flaxham was attending to her duties; Dr. Garrison, in 
the seclusion of his office, the servants busy at their 
respective posts, and quietness, still, perfect and rest- 
ful, reigned over Oberly’s Farm, better known to us as 
the “Home Sanitarium,’’ and to the poor, demented 
creatures imprisoned there as “The Home of the 
Happy.” 

What business had Miss Stockton, the brilliant 
teacher, the woman of sound mind and body, the once 
loved sweetheart of James Sinclair, and the friend of 
his lost granddaughter, in an asylum for the insane? 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE PRICE OP SILENCE. 

NO innocent man receiving a death sentence for a 
crime he never committed could have been more hor- 
ror-stricken than Dorothy was when Mr. Sinclair sur- 
prised her clasped in the arms of her — friend, lover, or 
brother, shall we call him? — and quickly disengaging 
herself from his embrace, she flashed a look of unut- 
terable hatred upon the old man and said: 

^^You, Mr. Sinclair, demand to know who this gentle- 
man is. I will tell jmu, though it is perhaps bad policy 
to trust such a traitor as you have proved yourself to 
be with a secret of a lifetime. He is my brother! M}^ 
dear, only brother, the son of mj mother by her first 
marriage, banished from home by the cruelty of my 
father as punishment for a fancied wrong, and denied 
admission to the presence -of his loved and loving 
sister under penalty of that sister^s disinheritance. 
It was he whom yon saw at the lake at Glymont, and 
it was I, not Mary, the housemaid, w^hom yon saw him 
kiss, but I dared not tell it then lest my father learn 
that I had met him there. Now you know why I inter- 
ceded so for a hired servant. I believe in justice, and 
I could not see even a chambermaid suffer for my act, 
and yet I could not vindicate her without arousing my 
father’s suspicions.” 

Mr. Sinclair’s face cleared perceptibly. 

^^You might have confided in me, Dorothy.” 

^^No, sir; my motto is to confide in no one of Adam’s 
descendants. I confided to yon a more important trust 
than this and yon willfully betrayed it.” 

^^Dorothy, you are unjust.” 

^^There was a time when I was a pure, innocent, 


184 


trusting girl. If I have become hardened and suspi- 
cious it is you who have made me so. I blindly gave 
up all, trusted my life, my name, my honor, everything 
into your keeping, to what end? To find myself a 
nameless creature, married, yet no wife, the dupe of 
your deceit, your cowardice, your villiany! Can you 
refute that, Mr. Sinclair?” 

^^Dorothy, I can only repeat to you that I believed 
myself free, and my intentions toward you were in 
strictest keeping with my belief of honor.” 

“You should have proved yourself free, beyond all 
doubt, before you laid your hateful heart at a pure 
girPs feet.” 

“Could there be further proof than the dead body of 
the woman Vvho was my wife?” 

“You say you buried her body, and yet she comes in 
person to prove your words false.” 

“Dorothy, this woman is not my wife.” 

“You must let the law decide that,” replied the little 
schemer, and turning to her “brother” she said, “You 
must go noAV, John, and jow may call again to-morrow. 
I have something to say to Mr. Sinclair which he Avould 
perhaps not care to have a third person hear.” 

Tbe young man bent and kissed her again, and im- 
mediately left the room. • 

Mr. Sinclair drew his chair up to the bedside. 

“Dorothy,” he murmured fondly, “come back to 
^Villa Francaise,’ and live there as my cherished 
daughter if you are still in doubt as to my freedom to 
wed yon. I cannot live Avithout you, and I swear to 
you that I will prove the truth of my assertions until 
you can no longer doubt.” 

“The proof must come first, Mr. Sinclair. I could not 
for a moment subject myself to the humiliation I would 
be forced to submit to AA^ere I to accept your offer. My 
return to the shelter of your home, if such I may ever 
hope for, must be triumphant, not degrading. Besides 
that, I no longer care for you. A man who has killed 
my respect for him can never hope to retain my love.” 

“Dorothy, you are cruel. It is not 1)^ your sweet, 
gentle heart to utter such hard accusati s.” 


185 


^^Behold the work of your hands, Mr. Sinclair. I was 
neither cruel nor unkind when you took me away from 
my father and brought me to this terrible fate. You 
can make no reparation for the deed you have done 
except to provide for me that I may not be dependent 
upon my father.^’ 

mailed you a check for two thousand dollars yes- 
terday. When that is exhausted you have but to ask 
for more.'^ 

will have no allowances dealt out to me in pit- 
tances by a miserly hand, Mr. Sinclair.’’ 

^What will you have, Dorothy?” 

wmnt five hundred thousand dollars made over to 

me.” 

‘^Do you know what you are asking, Dorothy? Five 
hundred thousand dollars is one-half of all I possess, 
and under the present state of affairs I doubt if I could 
raise so large an amount.” 

‘^You must raise it or go to prison, Mr. Sinclair,” 
coolly replied the little adventuress, raising herself on 
the pillow and giving him a mocking smile. have 
not bartered my happiness for nothing.” 

The old man buried his face in his hands. 

^‘My God,” he moaned, ^^have pity and spare this 
blow. ^To prison,’ to drag out my declining years in 
a felon’s cell. Oh, Dorothy, my gentle wife, surely you 
will not inflict upon me this dreadful punishment.” 

^^Not your wife, Mr. Sinclair, though I was once 
duped into believing I was. Yes, I am just so cruel. 
My mother was a Greek; I have all the fire of that 
ancient race in my veins. When a wrong is inflicted 
upon me I thirst for vengeance. Once the bitterness 
of my wrongs were fully realized I should gloat over 
your misery and mock at you while you languished be- 
hind prison bars. Be warned and do not awaken the 
slumbering serpent. Give your gold rather than the 
old name upon which you have been the first to bring 
dishonor.” 

^^However guilty you may believe me, Dorothy, I am 
innocent of a ' intended wrong.” 

^^Every let- sjireaker urges such pleas, Mr. Sinclair; 


186 


however, that will not give me back my position before 
the world, and you must settle upon me the amount I 
desire, or you will have to abide by the consequences 
of such a refusal/’ 

‘^To such a demand I have but one reply to make, 
Doroth}^, and that is, I can do nothing until I have 
seen my lawyer. If you choose to go back to America 
with me I will at once make the necessary prepara- 
tions. If you have any lady friend whom you would 
like to invite to ^Glyniont’ as your companion until 
this aflhir is settled you have my full permission to do 
so. I shall lay the entire matter before Mr. Deswald, 
and I shall follow his advice in all things, blindly, as 
I should have done once before. Then I had avoided 
all this trouble.” 

For the first time the old man began to realize that 
It was more for his wealth than for himself that Dor- 
othy cared. For the first time he caught a glimpse of 
the awful truth that she had never cared for him at 
all, and had only married him for his gold. 

The little adventuress saw that she was losing- 
ground . 

‘T will let you know to-morrow, Mr. Sinclair. I have 
no friend to advise me, no older person whose sound 
judgment and experience I might depend upon. I 
must have time to think it all over.” 

^‘Very well,” replied the old man, ^^you can drop me 
a line when you have made your decision. Until I have 
received j^our answer I will make no arrangements. 
Good bye.” 

- ^'The old simpleton!” muttered Dorothy, as the sound 
of his footsteps died away. ^^He must drag me back to 
America to complete this disgraceful business. How- 
ever, papa is there, and a widow gets one-third of her 
husband’s property in the event of his dying without a 
will.” 

She forgot that Elia Chelini would be the widow. 

Reaching out a dainty white hand, she touched the 
bell, and when Suzanne entered she said, ^^Dress me 
quickly, Suzanne, and then I want you to go to Baron 


/ 

f 


187 


Von Floville^s apartments and tell him I desire an in- 
terview with him at once.’’ 

Madame , responded the maid as she hurriedly 
brought out a pretty house toilette. 

The Baron walked into the prettily arranged salon 
Avith all the ease and grace of a polished gentleman, 
and seated himself in one of the comfortable, cushioned 
chairs Avith Avhich the room abounded, to await Mad- 
ame’s pleasure. 

Dorothy gave Suzanne permission to go out for an 
hour, and glided into the salon Avith the air of a prin- 
cess-royal. 

The polished manner, dignified grace, and gentle- 
manl}^ reserve were gone as soon as Von Floville found 
himself alone with his accomplice. 

^^May I ask Avhat new trouble has arisen?” he de- 
manded fiercely. 

am not aware of having said any trouble had 
arisen,” replied Dorothy. 

^^No, but your looks imply it. Let me know at once. 
What is it?” 

‘T have made the demand and failed!” 

^^You lie!” almost shouted the Baron. ^^You are only 
trying to cheat me out of the hundred thousand I have 
earned. James SincMr-_s^uld give eA^ery dollar he 
possesses rather than have su^Farerijne as bigamy at- 
tached to his honored old name.” 

^ J SAA’ear to you my Avords are true. I madb-the de- 
mand and he refused to give me anything except a suf- 
ficient amount to defra}^ my expenses until he had con- 
sulted his lawyer. lie proposes for me to return with^ 
him to America; have some lady friend stay as my 
companion at ^GlymonF until the affair is settled.” 

^^And Avhat will you do?” asked the Baron. 

deferred my ansAA^er until to-morroAV in order to 
lay the subject before you,” replied Dorothy. 

^Wou did well,” said the Baron. ^^Now, in consider- 
ation of the fact that you are in hourly danger here, 
since you so foolishly tried to murder that fellow at 
Champs Elysees, I Avould advise you to concede to his 
Avishes, I, of course, will follow with Elia Chelini on 


188 


tlie next boat, and then the battle will begin in earnest. 
We have little to fear from that half-witted Deswald, 
and Dumbarton will not make himself conspicuous, 
yon may be sure. He’s too much taken up with that 
wife and child. Ha! ha! ha!” 

^^You really think this the best course,” queried Dor- 
othy, dubiously. ^‘You know there is always papa. 
No one can tell what he may do.” 

^^Never mind Merlebank. Miss Flaxham will keep 
him in leading strings. By Jove, the old fellow thinks 
I am in ignorance of her existence. There’s where I 
have the dead-lock on him. He’s forgotten the society 
of the ‘Big Four,’ I dare say. Ah, well, let him think 
as he chooses, I shall remain mum as far as Miss Flax- 
ham goes, unless he drives me too far. By Jove! she 
was nncomnionly j^retty the last time I saw her. Had 
a figure like Hebe. I tried hard to cut Jerry out, but 
she was ‘dead gone’ on him, so no one else had a 
chance.” 

“You’d better not let your wife hear that, Baron.” 

“Oh, she won]<ln't mind. Fact is, the old lady has 
left me. In love with another fellow herself, I guess. 
Confoiincl it all, Dorothy, if 1 didn’t know a thing or 
two I’d be tempted to ‘go for you.’ You’re a dog-gone 
pretty woman, if you don’t know it.” 

“I will excuse you from such rough compliments, 
Baron. I have not the slightest desire to become Lady 
Yon Floville. Titles have no attraction for me. I am 
bent upon becoming an artist’s wife.” 

“After that stabbing scrape I hardly think you will 
have a showing, my little murderess. The fellow is 
not likely to recover in the first place, and in the sec- 
ond he’d hardly come to marry a woman who had tried 
to murder him in cold blood.” 

“He does not know who stabbed him,” said Dorothy. 

“At any rate he called your name out soon enough 
after he saw you last night.” 

“He only supposed it was I.” 

“Have it your way, if you can, my dear; win him if 
possible, but take care that the step is not taken too 


189 


soou. Remember there are others as revengeful as 
yourself/’ 

Dorothy laughed. 

am not often at a loss for an explanation of my 
actions, and you forget that I can prove an alibi for last 
night.” 

The Baron laughed also. 

^^You should have belonged to the ^Big Four,’ Dor- 
othy. It was said the devil himself could not out-devil 
them.” 

am a direct descendant, you know,” said Dorothy, 
and the Baron rose. 

have an engagement, otherwise I’d be pleased to 
remain longer. Let the old man have your answer to- 
morrow and be prepared to receive an old music-master 
at ^Glymont’ a week after your arrival there. Keej) 
Jerry in ignorance of your return as long as possible. 
Good day.” 

As soon as the Baron was gone Dorothy rang the 
bell, ordered a carriage, and immediately changed the 
pretty dress she wore for a street costume. She knew 
Suzanne, given permission to go out for an hour, would 
remain for several. This would give her time to drive 
to Duverney Hospital, spend an hour with Carl and 
return before the maid came in, and Dorothy was par- 
ticularly desirous that no one should know of this visit 
to the young artist. 

Fortunately for her it was visitors’ day at the hos- 
pital, and she did not have any trouble in gaining ad- 
mission to the ward in which her lover lay. 

Such a pang of remorse had never found rest in Dor- 
othy Merlebank’s heart as that which she felt when she 
saw Carl Wilmerding’s face, pale, haggard and thin, 
from the intense pain he had suffered and the great 
loss of blood he had sustained, lying back among the 
pillows. He who but yesterday had stood before her 
in the very bloom of health and the prime of manhood, 
had embraced her, kissed her false lips, poured words 
of tenderest love into her willing ear, and now he lay 
helpless, dying perhaps, from a blow dealt him by her 
hand. She was almost frantic. 


190 


‘^The gentleman must not be excited/’ said the nurse 
in French, and Dorothy choked back the cry that was 
ready to burst from her lips, as she dropped upon her 
knees beside the cot. 

^^Are you better, Carl?” she asked, and her voice 
sounded so hollow and unnatural that it almost fright- 
ened her. 

The young man opened his eyes wearily, and the 
smile that overspread his face only made it look more 
ghastly. 

^‘Ah, it is you, Dorothy. I am very glad you came. 
1 very much wanted a last talk with you before the end 
came. Our beautiful dream is ended, Dorothy, cruelly, 
abruptly ended by some murderess’ hand. We hoped 
much and fate has decreed that we realize nothing, yet 
our love was very sweet. But, Dorothy, darling, you 
will not grieve for me. Life is fleeting. At best we 
could not have hoped for many years of such bliss as 
ours; it could not have lasted. Such intense love never 
does, but eternity is unchanging — ah, this dreadful 
pain at my heart!” 

Dorothy buried her face in the pillow beside him 
and wept silently. As much as her shallow heart was 
capable of loving any one, she loved Carl Wilmerding, 
and by her own hand she had killed him. Better to 
have plunged a dagger in her own heart than suffer as 
she did for this mad deed. 

One of the dying man’s hands was laid gently on her 
head. 

^‘Don’t crj^, my Dorothy; I am not worthy of such 
precious tears. I will tell you why, my love. When I 
first received this stab I was mad enough to believe 
that it fell from one of these dear little hands; think of 
it, Dorothy, and tell me you forgive me for such a wild 
fiight of fancy. I actually thought it was joii who 
stabbed me, and at the time I wanted to die. I could 
not live to know you had ceased to care for me.” 

^^Oh, Carl, my love, don’t die, but live for me, live 
for my sake. I can never be happy again unless you 
get well. You will not leave me utterly alone in the 


191 


world. Oh, Carl, you must not die!’’ wailed the un- 
happy woman. 

No forced tears this time, no assumed grief, but hot, 
blinding tears burning their way from her weary brain, 
deep, heart-rending grief, such as one feels when the 
last hope of a lifetime slips silently from the hands, 
when the last foundation upon which we have built 
the dream of the future crumbles away before our 
helpless gaze. 

^^Dorothv, dear, for your sake I wish it might be 
otherwise, but I feel that my life is gradually slipping 
away, and in a few days, my love, you will have noth- 
ing to tell you of my love but a grass-covered mound 
in some silent churchyard and — a memory.’’ 

Dorothy did not reply. She could only weep. 

A grass-covered mound in some silent churchyard, 
and — a memory. Ah, God! If she could forget! 

^^Carl,” she murmured, ^df you die I am sure I shall 
go mad. Oh, I could not bear life knowing that you 
were lying cold and dead in the cruel grave.” 

^A^ou will not give way to such sad thoughts when 
I am gone, dear. Life is all before you. You must not 
let this sweet, sad little stor^^ of ours mar the bright 
future which lies before you. Only think of me some- 
times and I, far away beyond the stars, shall know and 
be happy.” 

^Ahe future will be but a dreary blank for me when 
you are gone,” wailed Dorothy. 

^A"ou must not look upon it that way, Dorothy. 
Some good man, a better man perhaps than I should 
ever be, will learn what a priceless jewel von are and 
make you his vife, and yet I would to God that I 
might once have breathed that sacred name over you. 
Dorothy, dear, it is a great deal to ask, I know, but I 
believe I should die happier if you would let me make 
you my wife. Should you be willing to that, dear?” 

Perhaps it was for very happiness, perhaps for a 
reason that even Dorothy would not own to herself, 
that she hid her face on the pillow again as she softly 
murmured : 

^A^es, Carl, I should be willing.” 


192 


A slight flush of color mounted to the young man’s 
brow as he squeezed the little hand he held and mur- 
mured tenderly : 

‘^Thank you, darling; let it be as soon as possible.” 

Dorothy held a short conversation with the chief 
nurse and attending physician, and left the hospital. 

Promptly at three o’clock she returned, accompanied 
by a gray-haired gentleman who carried a prayer-book 
in his hand. Dorothy stood beside the couch, the nurse 
and physician stood up as witnesses, and with solemn, 
impressive voice the man of God read the words that 
made Dorothy Merlebank and Carl Wilmerding 
one, if indeed that other marriage, contracted less than 
two months ago, could be called void, and Dorothy 
Merlebank free to wed any man. The last words fell 
from the minister’s lips : 

pronounce you man and wife; may the blessing of 
God rest upon you both now and evermore — Amen.” 

Dorothy raised her eyes, and saw before her the white, 
startled face of J ames Sinclair. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


HOW DOROTHY ESCAPED DETECTION. 

THE fact that Dorothy wore a very plain dark cos- 
tume, and one Mr. Sinclair had never seen, added to 
the fact that the old man was partially blind, was 
certainly very much in her favor. Well she knew that 
her case would be a hopeless one so far as money was 
concerned if he learned that she had married Carl. 

^^Call me by my second name, Frances, if he must see 
me,’’ she whispered, bending over her newly-made hus- 
band. 

When Mr. Sinclair left Dorothy, sick in bed, as he 
thought, he returned to ‘Willa Francaise,” and, think- 
ing he could learn what hour the trains left for Havre 
by referring to the morning paper, he was looking over 
its columns, when for the first time he learned of the 
attempt made upon the artist’s life. 

As soon as he could make the arrangements he or- 
dered his carriage and drove over to the Duverney 
Hospital, fully intending to have the young man re- 
moved to ^Willa Francaise,” where he could have the 
advantage of a home as well as best medical attention. 

He learned from the hospital authorities that Carl 
was in such a condition that to remove him would per- 
haps prove fatal ; upon hearing this he requested per- 
mission to see his young friend, and was shown into 
the ward just in time to hear the last words of the 
marriage ceremony. He could have sworn that the 
figure was Dorothy’s, but the very fact that he had 
seen her ill in her rooms at ^H^a Hotel Normandie” 
drove from his mind all idea that it was she. 

The gray-haired minister spoke a few words to the 


194 


sick man, and, prayer-book in hand, left the room. 
Mr. Sinclair drew a step or two nearer, and the bride 
lowered her vail. 

Carl saw that it would not do to let Mr Sinclair 
know that it was Dorothy, and he saw further that 
it would never do to let her pass out without an intro- 
duction. He smiled faintly as Mr. Sinclair approached 
the bed. 

^^My dear sir,” he said, ‘dt is a pleasure to see your 
welcome face. Come, Frances, let me introduce my 
old friend. Mr. Sinclair, Mrs. Wilmerding.” 

Thus reassured, Mr. Sinclair smiled. 

^^Why, Carl, 1113^ bo^", this is quite a surprise. I was 
not aware that you had a wife. Mrs. Wilmerding, 
I am exceedingly pleased to meet you.” 

The young man’s face flushed a trifle redder at the 
old man’s credulous acceptance of the story. 

^^Nor had I a wife until a few minutes ago, Mr. Sin- 
clair. This lady, to whom I was betrothed a short 
time since, called on me to-day, and to please a d^dng 
man consented to have the ceremony performed at 
once. I can not hope to last but a few hours longer, 
but m}^ d^dng moments will be cheered by her sweet 
presence, though she will so soon be a widow.” 

The tender-hearted old man brushed aside a tear. 

^^You must not look at it in that light, Carl; cheer- 
fulness in such cases is ofttimes half the battle, and a 
happy heart goes a long way toward making one 
strong.” 

Doroth^^ had as'ain dropped to her knees on the 
opposite side of the bed. In spite of the great self- 
coutrol she usually possessed, she was shaking in ever^’ 
limb. The faint, trembling voice in which she had 
replied to the old man would never have been recog- 
nized as her own, usually so gay and musical. She 
had never been so frightened in her life, and 3^et the 
,voung husband, who believed so implicitly in her 
truth and innocence, had not the remotest idea of the 
cause of her frio-ht. Her demand for five hundred 
thousand dollars of Mr. Sinclair’s fortune was a d<^ad 


195 


secret from him, and had he known, it were really 
doubtful if he had married her at all. 

A nurse came through the ward to say that visitors 
must depart, as it was now four o’clock, the hour to 
which all visits were limited. With man^^ encourag- 
ing words Mr. Sinclair bade the young man good-bye, 
and Dorothy, much as she would have liked to watch 
beside her husband, was forced to leave also. With 
many kisses and terms of endearment she bent over 
him for a minute before departing and exacting from 
the nurse a promise that she might see him again 
to-morrow. 

The physician, taking his tour through the wqrd 
that night, looked in surprise upon the changed ex- 
pression in the artist’s face. The deathly pallor which 
but a few hours ago had hovered over his handsome 
features was gone, and a soft glow of color suffused 
his cheeks, his pulse-beat was no longer a fevered 
throb, and a smile, tender, sweet and joyous, played 
about his lips, as though sleep could not drive from 
his mind the happy thought that Dorothy was his wife. 

The physician turned abruptly on his heel, gave a 
last glance at the sleeping face, and, turning to the 
nurse, he said: 

^^No fear of his dying now. That little woman’s 
visit has saved his life.” 

Whether the miraculous change was to be for weal 
or woe, God alone could tell. 

The following morning, after Dorothy had been 
dressed for the street, she dispatched Suzanne to the 
^Willa Francaise” with a message for Mr. Sinclair to 
the effect that she would return to America with him 
in two weeks, explicitly stating that he was to make 
no definite arrangements until he saw her again, and 
she further charged the maid that if Mr. Sinclair 
asked after her health she was to say that Madame 
was still in bed, and had called the doctor in the 
evening before. 

What all this duplicity was to lead to is a question 
we will not attempt to answer here. As soon as Su- 
zanne was out of sight Dorothy ordered a carriage 


196 


and drove at once to tlie Duverney Hospital, to spend 
the day Avitli Carl. She felt, indeed, as though Heaven 
had opened unto her when she saw that he was better 
and the kindly-faced white-capped nurse told her that 
the chances were now that Monsieur would live. 

It was fortunate for her that she had told no one 
of her intention to go to the hospital, since she had 
forgotten her engagement with ^dier brother’’ for that 
morning. Less than an hour after her departure he 
presented himself at ‘‘La Hotel Normandie,” and the 
porter who took up his card informed him that Mad- 
ame was out. Of course he raved and swore without 
deriving the least benefit from such a mad course, and 
he finally decided that he would wait for Madame. 
He was shown up to her private salon, and in a short 
time Suzanne returned. 

“Can you tell me where my sister is gone?” he asked. 

replied the maid; “I left Madame 
at home, though she was dressed for ze street.” 

Madanie’s brother found it rather hard to under- 
stand Suzanne’s mixture of French and broken En- 
glish. He muttered an oath which would have 
shocked the maid had she understood, but which she 
thought was meant as a speech of thanks to herself, 
and politely bowing that “Ze Monsieur was welcome,” 
she quitted the apartment and went about her duties. 

It was past four o’clock when Dorothy returned. 
Tripping up the stairs, humming a little snatch of 
some favorite song, she bounded into the salon as light 
and graceful as a fawn. 

The door had scarcely closed behind her when she 
was seized in a vise-like grip, and a commanding 
voice asked. 

“What the devil does this mean, Dorothy? I have 
been waiting here since ten o’clock this morning; now 
I would like to know how you are going to explain 
this long absence.” 

The little fraud looked at her interlocutor with a 
charming smile. 

“Why, John, how you frightened me! Wliere have 
I been? Why, shopping, to be sure. How eh^e do you 


197 


think a lady could spend six long hours in Paris? 
The chances are that 1 shall return to America in two 
weeks, and I had better replenish my wardrobe before 
sailing. Two hours I spent with Worth, who thumped 
and patted and measured me until I feel like so many 
walking yards and inches. I am to have half a dozen 
beautiful gowns from Worth, an elegant cloak from 
the Bon Marche, and, oh, dozens and dozens of pretty 
things from all the fashionable stores in Paris. I 
mean to lead society in Washington this winter.’^ 

^AVhile yon were ordering so much finery and spend- 
ing so much money did you remember that ten thou- 
sand dollars you owe me as the price of a certain secret 
I hold?’’ 

^‘Oh, yes, I remembered it all right; but, you see, I 
have only ordered these things; the bill will be sent to 
Mr. Sinclair.” 

^^And when am I to expect that which you owe me?” 

^^As soon as I can lay my hands on it,” rei^lied 
Dorothy. 

^AYhich means that I may have to wait a month and 
I may have to wait a year. Do yon know that my 
patience is almost exhausted? I tell you, Dorothy, 
you must either get the money or you must come away 
with me. I can not give up the last hope of happiness 
left to me.” 

^^As I told 3mu only yesterday, John, I can never do 
that. The mad fancy I once entertained for you is 
forever gone. Yon killed it; don’t blame me if I am 
false to yon. It was your own mad folly that drove me 
to forget my duty, honor, and my hope of Heaven. My 
foolish, wayward heart is now wholly in the keeping 
of another.” 

The man again seized her roughlv by the arm. 

^A"ou dare to stand before me and acknowledge such 
a shameful secret? Are you not afraid I shall murder 
you? Woman, you do not know me! Yon do not 
realize that before you stands a devil in human form. 
If I believed your words I’d tear your heart from your 
breast before I left this room. You love another man! 
That was simply said to see how far you dare try me. 


198 


Were ft true, well I kuow the confession would never 
fall from your lips. Don’t try me too far, Dorothy; 
my anger amounts to madness sometimes, and I might 
kill you before 1 knew what I was about.’’ 

‘‘You are making a very great goose of yourself,” 
said Dorothy, trembling in spite of her assumed calm- 
ness. 

“You drive me to it,” replied the man, doggedly. 
“Take off your hat and come sit by me.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t get sentimental, Jo!m; 
you know I never could bear that,” said Dorothy. 

“There are many things I can not bear that I am 
forced to submit to,” replied the man, taking her by 
the arm and draAving her to the sofa beside liim. 
“There Avas a time Avhen you did not object to my love 
and attentions.” 

“There was a time when I AA^as young and foolish,” 
replied Dorothy, slipping her arm around the yooiig 
man’s neck and giving him a tender kiss. ' There, you 
foolish boy; don't ask for any more.” 

Surely she Avas the strangest little mortal that ever 
drew breath. Only tAVO months ago she had lavished 
her kisses upon Janies Sinclair’s Avilling lips; yester- 
day^ she stood up beside a cot in the hospital Avard 
and*becanie the wife of Carl Wilmerding; less than an 
hour ago her arms had been tAvined around his neck in 
a fond embrace; and noAV she Avas offering her lips 
unasked to a man whom she has professed to hate. 
What Avas the sequel to it all? 

Doubtless had she been questioned she Avould have 
given some plausible explanatidn, yet Ave who are 
cognizant of the duplicity she is practicing upon those 
who trust her feel that there must be some strong mo- 
tive back of it all. This desperate game at cross- 
purposes AA as not played for nothing. There Avas one 
person, and one alone, who knew all, who was fully in- 
formed as regarded the life of this mysterious creature, 
and that person Avas — Adelle Flaxham. 

The young artist continued to improve, and at the 
end of two weeks the physician declared nothing would 
do him more good than a sea voyage. Mr. Sinclair, 


199 


hearing of this, at once invited Carl to accompany him 
to America and remain for a time at ‘^Glymont.’’ Dor- 
othy clapi)ed her hands with delight when she heard 
this. Surely fate would be kind to her at last. To be 
sure, she took passage as Miss Merlebank, and Carl 
readily agreed that it would be better to go by this 
name until the case of Mr. Sinclair’s first marriage was 
decided. They crossed from Havre to Southampton 
in one of the French boats, and from there took jias- 
sage on the same vessel in which they came over on 
their bridal tour, and the newly-made wife laughed 
at the idea of going over with one husband and re- 
turning with another; but, of course, this delightful 
little joke was for Carl’s ears alone. 

That the artist was leaving his ^mung wife in Paris 
the old man never doubted, and the knowledge that he 
was already a married man served to allay any feel- 
ings of jealousy that might have been aroused in the 
heart of the former husband when Dorothy was par- 
ticularly fascinating to the German. 

Baron Yon Floville did not even come around to 
wdsh them hon voyage, and Mr. Sinclair was not long- 
in surmising that the news of his wife’s arrival had 
reached the Baron’s ears, and he did not care to have 
his name associated with such a scandal, and had de- 
cided to cut his acquaintance for the future. This 
was, indeed, a source of regret to the old man, avIio 
really admired the Baron very much. 

The police had not yet been able to obtain the 
slightest clue to the mystery connected with the stab- 
bing by which Carl came so near losing his life, 
though they still held to the opinion that the fright- 
ened woman and her cruel husband were the guilty 
persons, and in spite of the clever tricks practiced by 
this famous band of experts to inveigle them into ex- 
posing themselves, they kept securely hidden and in- 
stead of clearing the mystery deepened. 

The voyage, with its attendant discomforts, was 
ended at last, and Dorothy felt as though she were 
landing in Paradise when she again placed her foot 
on American soil and knew that she might soon see 


200 

lier iidored ’Delle, tliough, to be sure, they hastened 
to ‘^Glymont’’ at once, Mr. Sinclair being in a fever of 
unrest to have his uncertain position settled. Carl 
thought ^‘Glyniont’’ the most beautiful place he had 
ever seen, and it proved a very bower of Eden to him 
and his bride, so happy were they during the blissful 
hours of their honeymoon. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A DECIDEDLY COMPLICATED AFFAIR. 

WHEN Mr. Deswald learned that Mr. Sinclair was 
to return lioine so soon lie pac‘ked his trunk and left 
^^Glymont/’ taking with him the book, letters, and 
strange iihial he had found in the odd old C‘al)inet, 
and he requested eaeh of the servants to keep his stay 
there a profound secret, which they promised willingly 
to do. Not one of them but would have done anything 
in their power for the lawyer, unless, indeed, it were 
Joshua, the errand boy, who had proved such a traitor 
to his master in the past few mouths. 

^Mdl keep the secret if you'll pay me for it,” he said, 
with his usual diabolical grin. 

On ordinary occasions Mr. Deswald would simply 
have refused to bribe any person to secrecy, but at 
this particular time it was very important that silence 
must be preserved, and he asked: 

^GIow much do you Avant, Joshua?” 

M guess it^s worth somewhere near ten dollars, sir, 
to keep dis secret, ef iEs so important.” 

^Wery Avell, Joshua,” replied the lawyer; “but re- 
member you are bound to keep it, and I will see that 
you go to the Avork-house if you dare to reveal one 
Avord of my having been here.” 

Joshua’s black face broke into a series of smiles 
as he took the crisp ten-dollar note Mr. Deswald placed 
in his hand, and he said Avith great solemnity: 

“’Fo’ GaAvd, sir, Fll neAW peach. It’s de highest 
bidder what gits Josh, an’ none of dem fiirrin fellows 
ever gimme more’n a dollar for wuss Avork dan keepin’ 
a secret.” 

Mr. Deswald saw his opportunity. 


202 


^^Come, now, Joshua, what will you charge to tell 
me all you know of these foreign gentlemen?’’ 

Joshua’s eyes grew considerably larger and more 
sparkling over the anticipation of another note, ‘‘to 
keep comp’ny wid de one he had.” 

“How much will j^on gimme, sir?” 

“If you will tell me everything you know, keeping 
back nothing, and adhere strictly to the truth. I’ll 
give you another ten dollars,” said Mr. Deswald. 

“I’m your man, sir,” exclaimed the boy; “what do 
you want to know first?” 

“Start at the beginning and tell me everything you 
have been paid for, outside of your services to Mr. 
Sinclair, since last Christmas eve.” 

“It’s been a long time, but I guess I can remember, 
sir, though my ’membrance ain’t so powerful good. It 
’pears, sir, dat I don't ’member nothin’ ’fo’ de little 
baby was left here, but de next day after dat I was 
Avalkin’ ’long down by de gate and a man called to me 
to stop. I kinder halted, and he says, ‘See here, young 
man, do you want to make a dollar?’ ‘I’se no objec- 
tion,’ I says, ‘’less you want me to kill somebody to do 
it. I ain’t got no hankerin’ after bein’ hung.’ ‘Well, 
I don’t want you to kill nobody,’ he says, ‘but I want 
you to tell me if thev's a lady called Miss Dorothy 
Merlebank stoppin’ up at the house on the hill.’ ‘Yes, 
sir,’ I says, and he pulled out a note and give it to me. 
‘Take dat up to her and bring me de answer, and here’s 
your dollar,’ he says.” 

“Who did you think this man was, eloshua?” asked 
the lawyer. 

“Ef you’ll ’sense me for sayin’, sir, I knowed de man. 
It was Mr. Jack Dumbarton, dough he did look power- 
ful skeert aroun’ de eyes, like as if he’d been tipsy.” 

“Did the young lady send an answer?” 

“No, sir; she went out to see him herself, and stayed 
’til pretty nigh dark.’’ 

“Did this man come again?” asked Mr. Deswald. 

“’Deed he did, sir; he fa’rly ha’nted de place after 
det, and, all told, I guess he paid me as much as ten 
dollars to take notes up to de lady.” 


203 


‘^Did you receive any money from the other gentle- 
men for such errands?^’ 

“Dat I did! One daj^ de doctor paid me five dol- 
lars to listen to a talk ’tween Uncle Peter and Mr. 
Dumbarton, dough 1 should be ’shamed to own as I 
done sich a thing, but ’twas for de money, sir, and, 
after all, I didn’t hear much; but, you see, I had to tell 
five dollars’ worth, so 1 put ’nough to it to fill up de 
gaps, and de doctor was i)owerful pleased.” 

<<Were you ever employed by Baron Von Floville 
for such work as this?” 

^‘Yes, sir; and he was better pay than de doctor, 
dough I did ketch him fittin’ keys in de iron safe wliar 
Marse Sinclair keeps his wallyble papers, one time.” 

^Mosliua, is this true? Eemember, I Avill not pay 
you to fill ux^ gaps, as the doctor did. Did you really 
see Yon Floville trving to unlock your master’s safe?” 

^^Yes, sir. I’ll cross my heart I did: so help me Gawd! 
And he kep’ sayin’, sorter eas}^ like, ^One, two, three, 
seven, five, eleven — damn it! — seven, eleA^en, live, tliree^ 
two, one!’ ” 

^^At what time was tliis?” 

^^Dead of night, sir.” 

‘AYhat were you doing in your master’s library in 
the dead of night, Joshua?” 

^^Watchin’ de Barring, sir, lak de doctor ivdid me 
to do.” 

^‘Did you speak to him?” 

^^No, sir, but I started to go back an’ tell de doctor 
Avhat I’d seen, and I stumbled, kinder aAvk’ard like, 
and he saAV me, and no sooner dan he got a glimpse of 
my face he leapt out of de window lak he thought de 
debble he’self was after him. Next day he left de 
place, and I hain’t seen him since.” 

^^Do you not know it was very Avrong for you to 
know all this and not tell your master, Joshua?” 

^‘Ef I’d a told him dey wouldn’t a paid me, sir.” 

^‘Your master was paying for your serAUces to him- 
self, and you should not have been bribed. However, 
it is too late now to repair matters; but I will tell ^ ou 
what I will do. If you Avill promise to be faithful to 


204 


me, keep your eyes open as you have done for these 
gentlemen, refuse all bribes they may offer, and re- 
port to me everything that transpires at Glymont, I 
will give you one of these every month/’ 

As he spoke Mr. Deswald held out the second ten- 
dollar note, and, with the inordinate greed for money 
which characterizes the negro race, Joshua clutched 
the money in his black hand, exclaiming as he did so : 

^^All right, boss, it ain’t as much as I might git from 
the others, but with you it’s a sho’ thing, and mebbe 
the}^ might fool me some day when my work was 
done.” 

From the first Mr. Deswald had had grave sus- 
picions and doubt of Dr. Merlebank’s honesty. As 
for the Baron, he had sized him up as a professional 
“tough” the first time he ever saw him. That there 
was some deep-laid plot between the two he had not 
the slightest doubt. Their scheme was clearly visi- 
ble. They had tried first to win the heiress. Failing 
in that, Dorothy had, to gain possession of the money, 
married ^Ir. Sinclair, and ^Ir. Deswald felt sure they 
now meant to get rid of the old man by fair means or 
foul. That ^larguerite had not died from natural 
causes the lawyer was confident. If not, who but Dr. 
Merlebank had committed the crime? 

“Glymont” was again thrown open in anticipation 
of the owner’s arrival, and the autumn sunbeams 
danced over the grand old mahogany furniture or 
played hide-and-seek through the filmy meshes of the 
lace curtains that old Becky would trust no one to 
launder or liang up but herself, and the dainty, frost- 
like figures swinging against the wdndow’-panes w^ere 
no discredit to her ability as a laundress. 

To say that the servants w^ere glad to learn of their 
master’s intention to return, w^ould be to give scant 
justice to their feelings of delight wdien Mr. Deswmld 
confided to them the Avelcome new^s. 

No Frencli chef could have added to the dinner pre- 
pared by old Becky and her assistant upon the day of 
their arrival, and old Peter, in full livery, stood w^ait- 
ing to fling Avide the doors upon their return and offer 


205 


welcome to the ^^good ole Marse and his sweet young 
bride/’ It was Carl Wilmerding who assisted Dor- 
othy from the carriage and escorted her up the broad 
stone steps, the broken old man following feebly after 
them, supported by the arm of his old friend and ad- 
viser, Mr. Deswald. 

Dorothy had never been so happy in her life, though 
she knew her happiness could not last. She had es- 
caped her ^‘detestable brother;” her father was still 
in ignorance of her arrival; she was free from the 
Baron for at least a week, and, above all, she had Carl. 

She did ample justice to the delicious viands set 
before her, but the “king” for whose especial delight 
the “banquet” had been prepared ate but little, and 
looked in sorrowful wonder at the bright face of the 
happy, vivacious creature who presided with such 
queenly grace at the foot of his table. Carl was un- 
usually quiet. He felt tliat he had, in a measure, 
robbed the old man of his treasure, and for tlie first 
time since his marriage he suffered something like 
regret for not having waited until Elia Chelini could 
prove her claims to be true. What if he had married 
another man’s wife after all? 

The dinner hour seemed interminable to the lawyer, 
who saw that all was not as it should be between the 
old man and his young wife, and when at last it was 
ended and the two lifelong friends were locked in the 
library, Mr. Deswald found himself free to ask: 

“What is it, Mr. Sinclair, that weighs so heavily 
upon your mind? Two months ago you left Washing- 
ton as buoyant and happy as a schoolboy, and to-day 
you return, the ghost of your former self, sad and 
oppressed as though the cares of a lifetime had been 
heaped upon your shoulders.” 

The old man looked up wearily. The sun of his life 
had indeed gone down, and its evening star set in dark- 
ness. Over his honored old name hung the shadow 
of disgrace, and the happiness he had hoped would 
cheer his remaining years had fled at the first approach 
of sorrow. 

“Ah, my friend, not only the cares, but also the sins 


20G 


of a lifetime have been heaped upon me. I left Wash- 
ington, two months ago, happy because I believed in 
my own truth and honor, hapijy because 1 had Avon for 
my oAvn the Avoman I loved, and the Avoman I believed 
loved me. I return to knoAV that my truth and honor 
are gone, that my marriage Avas but a mockery, and — 
the crime of bigamy hanging over my honored old 
name.’’ 

^‘Mr. Sinclair!” — the laAA’yer had arisen. 

‘^Hush; do not censure me until you know all!” ex- 
claimed the old man. ‘^Six years ago, Avhile traveling- 
in Italy, I stopped at the beautiful city of Genoa. 1 
had not intended to remain long there, but falling in 
with a party of friends Avith Avhom I had toured 
through Switzerland I Avas induced to remain for a 
week in the voluptuous toAvn. On the second -night 
after my arrival there one of the gentlemen of the 
party invited me to accompany him to the Theatre 
Italia. I had neA^er cared for such amusements, but 
acceded to his Avishes and to Avhat has been my ruin. 
Opposite us in one of the boxes sat a woman. I think 
she was the most beautiful woman I ever saw. It ap- 
peared that my friend had met her, and upon noticing 
that I was attracted by her beauty he immediately 
offered to introduce me. I think I must haA^e been 
mad to think of such a thing, but I seemed to have lost 
all control of my senses before the syren’s eyes, and 
when the curtain dropped after the act we made our 
way to the box. For a few days I lived in a sort of 
bewildered dream, and then I committed the crowning 
act of madness. I married Elia Chelini. For a while 
the glamour lasted, and I was perfectly happy, but by 
and by we began to learn that we were not in the 
least suited to each other. Elia reproached me for 
having tied her doAvn to a life she detested, because I 
was unwilling for her to frequent the theatre every 
night. Then^ our misery began. She gave me to un- 
derstand that she had not married me for a master, 
and meant to do as she pleased. I learned later that 
it was her mother who encouraged her in these fast 
notions, and I forbade her to go to her mother’s house 


207 


again. After that our quarrels became more frequent, 
and for the few months that followed we rarel^^ went 
out together. One night, almost a year after our 
marriage, Elia entered my dressing-room dressed for 
the theatre and announced her intention of going to 
the Italia. That night the Italia was burned and hun- 
dreds of lives lost. Her body, as I supposed, was taken 
from the ruins the next day; her face was so badly 
burned that it was unrecognizable, but I could have 
sworn that the scorched and ruined dress was the 
dress she wore. I buried the poor, unfortunate 
woman in the Genoese cemetery, had her name in- 
scribed upon the marble shaft over her grave, and 
left the scene of my misfortune. That was five years 
ago. Four weeks ago I received a letter from Genoa 
stating that my wife was alive and would arrive in 
Paris the Wednesday following the receipt of the 
letter. She came, and, though her features are un- 
changed, her beauty is all gone; her voice, once low 
and musical, is harsh and discordant now; her hair, 
black and glossy once as a ‘raven’s wing, is now gray, 
unkempt and wiry. She has suffered much; she de- 
mands recognition as my wife, and has caused that 
poor child to hate me.” He pointed out to the moonlit 
terrace where Dorothy stood, Carl Wilmerding at her 
side. 

^^How does she explain her presence after being 
as one dead for five years?” asked Mr. Deswald. 

^‘She had not gone to the theatre, as I supposed, 
but had gone to spend the night with her mother, who 
was dying. Upon learning of the burial of the un- 
known woman she made up her mind to leave me still 
in ignorance of her whereabouts until such a time as 
her mother no longer needed her services. When she 
returned to our lodging I was not there, and she claims 
that it was only upon seeing a notice in some Parisian 
paper of my third marriage and arrival in Paris that 
she knew where to find me.” 

^ Where is this woman?” asked Mr. Deswald. 

^'KShe is still in Paris,” replied Mr. Sinclair. 

^Then we must cable her to sail for America at 


208 


once/’ said Mr. DesAvald. “Of course, the court must 
decide the case, Avhich can not come up until she 
makes charges against you.” 

^‘No, no, Oeswald, it is for the ])urpose of settling 
it out of court that I returned to Washington. That 
innocent child would die of shame AA^ere I to let this 
dreadful story come out before the aa orld.” 

^^Then AAdiat in the name of sense do you mean to do? 
I do not see AAliere any one could attach the smallest 
blame to either your or the young girl’s name. Both 
of you AA^ere innocent of any intentional crime. Hoaa’ 
else do you propose to settle it?” 

^^That is Just AAdiat I am trying to come to iioaa", 
Deswald. Dorothy agrees to accept one-half of my 
fortune and drop tlie case. Of course, AAutli her beauty 
and accomplishments, she could soon marry again, 
and as the wife of some good man this unfortunate 
affair AAmuld soon be forgotten.” 

^‘Yes, as the aa ife of that young artist, for instance,” 
said IMr. DesAAmld, contemptuously. 

^^Oh, he has a AAufe already,” replied the old man, 
ready in a moment to defend the man AAdio had been 
the unconscious instrument of all his trouble. 

^^May I ask, ^Ir. Sinclair, who proposed the giAung of 
this five hundred thousand dollars as a quietus in Miss 
Merlebank’s case?” asked the lawyer. 

^‘She suggested it,” replied Mr. Sinclair. 

supposed as much. Look at her iioaa", ^tr. Sin- 
clair. Does she act very mucli like a broken-hearted, 
innocent child?” 

Mr. Sinclair aa^hs forced to admit that she did not. 
She was standing in the silvery glow of the full moon, 
tAvining autumn roses around the head of the artist, 
and her musical laughter floated to the house as clear 
and happy as the tinkling of sih^er bells. 

IVfr. DesAvald dreAv near his old friend. 

^^jMr. Sinclair.” he said, ^ffar from desiring to boast 
of any superior Judgment, T am forced to saA^ a^ou liaA^e 
taken the wrong auoaa^ of this matter, and T fear a^ou ave 
about to deliver your money to a cold-blooded jn! 
tr^infiiress. In vieAA^ of the fact that I have neA^er arl 


201 ) 


vised you wrongly, let me take this case in my haiKJS, 
and I j)romise you as a friend and brother that v(»u 
shall not regret it2’ 

Mr. Sinclair thought for a moment. He knew lie 
could trust Herbert Deswald as he could trust no 
other man on earth. 

^‘As my friend, Deswald, I trust you,’^ he said. 

The two clasped hands over the contract, and five 
minutes later the lawyer was driving his dog-cart in 
the direction of the city. 

Dorothy and Carl, rose-crowned and hapiiy, had 
wandered down toward the lake, where the moonlight 
filtered through the autumn leaves, and fell like a 
thousand costly gems on the smooth surface of the 
water, undisturbed by so much as a ripple. They were 
now Avhere the foliage of the trees protected them 
from any person who might be Avatching from the 
windoAvs of the mansion, and Carl took his Avife in his 
arms, kissed her a dozen times as he held her to his 
breast, and said: 

“Dorothy, my beautiful darling, I Avonder if Heaven 
could hold a greater hapiiiness than that Avhich I feel 
when I remember that you are ni}^ Avife?^^ 

The Avords had scarcely fallen from his lips Avlieii a 
stalAvart figure sprang up before them, a harsh laugh 
rang out upon the night air, a pair of muscular arms 
caught the young man in a vise-like grip, and the next 
moment the waters of the lake had closed over Carl 
Wilmerding'^ face. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


HOW THE BATTLE BEGAN. 

WHEN Mr. Deswald returned to the city his first 
move was to go to the office of one of the most promi- 
nent morning papers and give a detailed account of 
Mr. Sinclair’s recent marriage, with a list of subse- 
quent events connected with it. He next went to the 
Western Union Telegraph office and sent a cablegram 
to the Prefect of Police in Paris requesting him to make 
search for the Italian woman, Elia Chelini Sinclair, 
and to notify him at once when she was found. By 
the time he reached his room it was after midnight 

Before nine o’clock the following morning all Wash- 
ington knew of the startling denouement of the mil- 
lionaire’s marriage. 

Of course, the old man was blamed and Dorothy 
pitied, and more than one societ}^ belle drove over to 
^‘Glymont” to offer sympathy to the poor little bride 
and give her ^^sound advice” upon which course to 
pursue; but Dorothy saw no one, and the would-be 
consolers went back to their homes pitying her more 
than ever. ^^Of course, she was broken-hearted over 
the awful ending of her hopes,” and many went so far 
as to say they didn’t see how slie could ever hold up 
her head again. Mr. Deswald knew from the begin- 
ning how it would be, but he resolutely pushed ahead, 
in spite of Mr. Sinclair’s protestation that he was 
ruining him. 

Two days after he dispatched the cablegram to Paris 
the reply came that there was no such person in the 
city as Elia Chelini Sinclair. He drove over to “Gly- 
mont” immediately, and for more than two hours was 
shut up in the library with Mr. Sinclair. 


211 


As he j)assed out the gates on his return to the city 
Joshua suddenly sprang up in the road, his face fairly 
aglow with importance. Mr. Deswald drew rein and 
invited the boy to a seat beside him. 

‘AYell, Joshua, have you something to tell me this 
time?’^ he asked, encouragingly. 

^A^es, sir,’’ replied Joshua; ‘^Miss Dorothy and de 
young man as come from de other side de ocean is 
married.” 

‘^How do you know this, you young rascal?” de- 
manded the lawyer fiercely, though nothing could have 
pleased him better than the truth of the boy’s state- 
ment. 

Joshua began forthwith to give an account of their 
conversation at the lake on the night of their arrival 
at ^^Glymont,” and ended by saying: 

^^And all of a suddent up comes Mr. Dumbarton, and 
he cotch the young man up in his arms lak he was a 
baby and pitched him over in the water, and then I 
took to my heels, ’cause I didn’t want to be ’cused of 
drownding him.” 

^A^ou are sure this is the truth, Joshua?” 

^Ahe gospel truth, sir; and the young man hain’t 
showed up since, though I did hear Miss Dolly tell 
Mr. Sinclair he was gone to New York on business and 
might not be back for several days.” 

^^Has Miss Dorothy been to the lake since that 
night?” asked Mr. Deswald. 

^A"es, sir, she has, and so have Mr. Dumbarton, 
dough they daresn’t go near in de day time. Miss 
Dolly, she give him money last night, and I creeped 
up a little closter to hear what she says, and she says: 

‘^Here, John, take this, and for Heaven’s sake don’t 
make a fool of yourself. You know I will not marry 
any one else.” 

^Js this all, Joshua?” 

‘^All as I knows just now, sir,” replied the boy. 

Mr. Deswald gave him his reward and drew rein for 
him to alight, and after cautioning him to remain per- 
fectly quiet upon the subject, drove rapidly away to 
Washington. Callers at the office of ^^Deswald & Dum- 


212 


barton^’ the next day found the office closed and the 
attorneys absent. As for Jack Dumbarton, people had 
ceased to ask for him, but with Mr. Deswald it was 
different. He was never out of his office for an hour that 
he had not half a dozen callers, and more than one of 
his clients was greatly surprised to see a notice tacked 
up on the door to the effect that the senior member of 
the firm had gone to Europe and would perhaps be 
absent for a month. Some said he was off on wild- 
goose chase,’’ others agreed that he had not wholly 
recovered from the severe attack he suffered last Win- 
ter, and was traveling for his health, while there were 
still others who whispered that Jack Dumbarton had 
gone to Europe, become entangled in some disgraceful 
affair, and had cabled his partner to come to his as- 
sistance. 

In whatever interest the journey was taken, Mr. 
Deswald kept his own counsel. When he left Wash- 
ington he went direct to New York, took passage on the 
steamship Fulda for Southampton, from thence to 
Havre, and from Havre by rail to Paris. 

The first person he met in Paris was Baron Stanley 
Yon Floville, and certainly nothing could have been 
more opportune. 

The Baron doffed his silk hat with kingly courtesy 
and extended to the lawyer a slender, well-kept hand. 

‘Air. DesAvald!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible I see 
you this side of the ‘pond?’ I hope you bring good 
news of my old friend, Mr. Sinclair, and his charming 
bride.” 

“To the contrary, the news I bring is rather sad,” 
said Mr. Deswald. “The fact is, our old friend has a 
wife, but she was a bride several years ago.” 

“I do not understand,” murmured the Baron. “You 
can not mean that ]\[r. Sinclair has been guilty of mar- 
rying a third wife Avhile a second is still Ihdng?” 

“So it seems,” said Mr. Deswald, studying the 
Baron’s face closely, and then he set about telling the 
whole story, not failing to note the effect it had upon 
tlie titled g#^ntleman. Although the Baron professed 
to be entirelv ienorant of the story, he did not appear 


213 


iu the least astonished, and Mr. Deswald closed his 
eyes that night with the comfortable assurance that 
he had scored at least one point in the mysteiy . 

He had secured rooms in ‘^La HoteLNormandie,’^ as 
near as he could get them to the Barones apartments, 
and learned later that the Baron could not leave with- 
out being seen by him if he chose to watch for him. 
This was certainly one point of the lawyer’s intention, 
since he felt confident that Elia Chelini Sinclair and 
Baron Von Floville were in some secret confidence 
as regarded this affair. The Baron’s apparent lack of 
interest in a matter so closely connected with a man 
for whom he professed the Avarniest friendship 
strengthened this belief more than anything else. 
F aving resolved that Von Floville Avould lose no time 
in warning the Italian Avonian of his (the lawyer’s) 
arrival, Mr. Deswald was up at dawn the folloAving 
morning, and, ordering breakfast served in his room, 
he stationed himself at the wiudoAV to watch for his 
man. He was not in the least surprised when, at half- 
past six o’clock, he saw a man, easily recognized as the 
Baron, muffied up to the ears in a heavy overcoat, Avith 
a cap pulled doAAm close over his eyes, emerge from the 
office and Avalk rapidly doAvn the street. Von Floville 
had no idea that the aristocratic American would be 
awake at this early hour, and he meant to be back at 
the hotel for eight-o’clock breakfast. He never once 
looked back, and in consequence had not the slightest 
idea that he Avas followed. After half an hour’s brisk 
Avalking he turned into a narrow side street, Avell 
known to Parisians as the resort of the poorer classes, 
rang the bell at a shabby-looking Avooden house, and 
Avas admitted by a Avoman, tall, dark, and sinister 
looking. INlr. DesAvald, on the opposite side of the 
street, Avent no farther, but stepped up to a door, rang 
the bell, and asked the name of the street. 

The AVoman aaTio responded to his ring smiled at his 
foreign accent, but replied courteously to his questions, 
and Mr. DesAvald, Avitli a glance at the opposite house, 
scribbled down the street and number, tipped his hat 
to the woman, retraced his steps to Hotel Nor- 


214 


mandie/’ and gained his room in safety, before the 
Baron returned. 

The fact that he had already breakfasted did not in 
the least deter the laAA^yer from appearing at the break- 
fast table at the usual hour, and Baron Von Floville 
made himself exceedingly agreeable, a fact which 
brought forth comments from all the waiters, once they 
had an opportunity of discussing the matter. The 
Baron had heretofore preserved a dignified silence at 
the table, and more than one person had ventured the 
remark that he Avas the oddest man in existence, or else 
there was some terrible secret Aveighing upon his mind; 
whether they Avere right or Avrong in their surmises 
Von Floville never took the trouble to enlighten them. 

As soon as Mr. Deswald could risk his chance he or- 
dered a carriage and drove to the house Avhich he had 
seen the Baron enter early in the morning. 

Of the little child Avho appeared at the door he asked, 
in French: 

‘^Can I see Mrs. Elia Chelini Sinclair?’’ 

Monsieirr,^^ replied the dimple-faced child, 
leading the way into a neat but poorly-furnished sit- 
ting room. The Mr. DesAvald who seated himself in the 
chair placed for him by the little one was an entirely 
different looking person from the Mr. Deswald whom 
we liaA^e knoAvn as a man sixty years of age, Avith iron- 
gray hair, pale face, and quiet mein. The man before 
us did not appear to be over five-and-thirty. His crisp, 
curling hair and mustache Avere of a rich chestnut 
broAvn, his cheeks as ruddy as a son of Erin, his laugh- 
ing blue eyes sparkling AAuth suppressed brightness. 
The child disappeared and in a short time the door 
opened and the tall woman whom he had seen admit 
Von Floville entered the room. 

The lawyer arose, bowed, and asked: 

^T^o I address Mrs. Elia Chelini Sinclair?” 

Monsienr^^^ replied the woman, with a slight 
though perceptible quaAW in her A^oice. 

Evidently she was expecting this Ausitor. 

^^May I ask if you are the wife of Mr. James Sinclair, 
of Washington, D. C.?” 


215 


am, sir,” she replied in English, speaking with far 
less effort than she did in French. 

‘‘You were married to Mr. Sinclair quite a number 
of years ago, were you not?” 

“Six years ago last June, sir.” 

“Five years of that time yon have been in ignorance 
of your husband^s whereabouts?” 

“Yes, sir; and it was only when I saw the announce- 
ment of his marriage to Miss Dorothy Merlebank that 
I learned he was still alive.” 

“I understand that you are not a woman of means. 
May I ask how you have managed to earn a livelihood 
during the five years you have been separated from 
your husband?” 

“By teaching the primary branches of French and 
English in a school in Genoa, sir.” 

“Where did you acquire the knowledge of these 
languages, Madame?” 

“From my mother, sir, who was an efficient scholar 
in both.” 

“I believe you have the proofs of your marriage, a 
certificate properly signed, etc.?” 

“Yes, sir; I have my marriage certificate, and one of 
the witnesses is still alive.” 

“You wore, I believe, at the time you were supposed 
to have been burned to death, a bracelet, a lock brace- 
let, to which Mr. Sinclair kept the key. Can you tell 
me if there was any monogram inside of this bracelet?” 

The woman grew slightly paler. 

“I do not remember clearly, but I believe there was 
a monogram, a C and S intertwined. As this bracelet 
was used as an engagement token I think it most prob- 
able that it contained this monogram, though I remem- 
ber nothing more. I was never sentimental, and after 
my husband left Genoa I had the lock broken and sold 
the bracelet for less than half its value to help defray 
my mother’s funeral expenses.” 

“Was it of great value?” asked the lawyer. 

“I hardly think it was worth over one hundred dol- 
lars,” replied the woman. 


2i(i 


“You are sure that the lock was broken when you 
took it from your arm?^^ 

‘^Yes, 1 am quite sure. I had not the key and there 
was no other resort.’^ 

“At what time of day was your marriage ceremony 
performed?’’ 

“Preciselv at four o’clock on the afternoon of June 
23rd, 1884.” 

“And by whom?” 

“Father Antonio Girvanui, of the Church of The 
Holy Cross, Genoa.” 

Mr. Deswald shifted his position. 

“Madame, you must accompany me to Washington. 
If possible we wish to bring this affair to a termination 
without making public the facts in the case. I suppose 
you are prepared to return to your husband, if the case 
is decided in your favor?” 

“No, sir; I have no desire to again appear before the 
world as Mr. Sinclair’s wife. Our marriage was never 
a happy one, and I have simply brought forth this 
claim to open the eyes of the innocent child he has 
duped, and if possible to force him to provide for me, 
that I may not be compelled to drag out my life in this 
monotonous fashion for the sake of my daily bread.” 

“I suppose, then, you will sue for divorce and ali- 
mony?” 

“That is my intention, sir.” 

“May I ask who is your counsel?” 

“I liave obtained none as yet.” . 

“Then I would advise you to defer doing so until you 
reach Washington. I shall return there as soon as I 
have ascertained the facts in the case, and shouAd 
pleased to render you any assistance in my power in 
connection with your voyage.” 

“You are very kind, sir, and I shall be pleased to 
accept your offer. One finds it very trying to be com- 
pelled to attend to all the details of an ocean voyage, 
particularly when the voyage is to an unknown coun- 
try. I have looked upon Americans as a semi-barbar- 
ous race since my husband so cruelly deserted me.” 

“l^ou must not be hard upon all Americans because 


217 


of the faithlessness of one/’ said Mr. Deswald; as- 
sure you we are not by any means a faithless race.” 
The lawyer uttered the last sentence with a smile, 
meant to win the confidence of the woman, and that he 
succeeded was amply proved by subsequent events. 

Just as the lawyer stepped into his carriage Baron 
Yon Floville appeared upon the scene, and as it had 
been solely for his benefit that the youthful disguise 
had been adopted, it was evident that Mr. Deswald had 
been expecting him. 

Elia Chelini was still standing in the door. 

‘‘Who is that young man?” demanded the Baron, 
shaking her ronghl}^ by the arm. 

“Don’t be foolish, Baron; he is only the man who 
comes to collect the rent for the cottage, though I am 
sure I don’t see why you should be so deeply interested 
in my callers,” she added, laughingly. 

“Damn your callers!” muttered the Baron, “it is for 
nothing that I care so long as you keep this affair with 
old Sinclair in a plausible degree of truthfulness. I’m 
confounded hard up just now, and if the affair isn’t set- 
tled soon I see nothing but Australia for me.” 

“Don’t become discouraged too soon, Baron,” said 
the woman. “I have written to Mr. Sinclair to-day, 
stating that I will be in Washington by the first of 
November, and I presume it will not be long after that 
before you and the charming little bride and the de- 
serted clcl vife will have a chance to divide the spoils.” 

She broke into a mnsical laugh, and the Baron, giv- 
ing her a slap on the shoulder, said: “That is as it 
should be, Elia. I begin to think you have executive 
ability about you after all. I shouldn’t be surprised 
if you are nominated as candidate for Governor in some 
of the States, once you land on American shores. Ha! 
ha! ha! Mrs. Elia Chelini Sinclair, Governor of Col- 
orado! How does that sound, old girl?” 

“Don’t be a fool, Baron. Once T am in poss#^ssion of 
the money I am working for I shall return to my native 
city and endeavor to bring up these innocent little chil- 
dren in such a way that they will make honest men 
and women, and patriotic citizens of their country^” 


218 


lady grows mysterious,” laughed the Barou, eu- 
teriug the sittiug room where four little ehildreu were 
playing hide-aud-seek behind the table and chairs. 
Their scant clothing and pinched little faces 
showed that they belonged to the very poorest class in 
Paris, but they certainly displayed a remarkable de- 
gree of familiarity with the Baron. As soon as he set- 
tled himself in a chair, the smallest of the four was on 
his knee, and the others were hanging around him beg- 
ging for sweets, and to prove that the Baron had been 
looking for such a demand, he immediately took from 
his pocket a box of bon-bons and distributed them 
among the little ones. Any one would have recognized 
the little golden-haired tot who persisted in calling 
him ^hlan-papa,” but the others were not so easily ac- 
counted for. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


A CRUEL AWAKERIKG FOR CARL. 

WHEN .Dorothy saw who it was that stood before 
her she did not er^eu wait to see if Carl came up to the 
surface of the water, neither did she cry for help, but 
turned and fled from the scene as though all the devils 
from the bottomless pit were after her. 

So, when Carl, dripping wet, with the lake moss 
clinging to his garments, rose to the surface and struck 
out for the shore she was nowhere to be seen, and only 
the mocking face of the strange man remained to prove 
that he was not the victim of some strange hallucina- 
tion of the brain, and the whole occurrence but flgment 
of a disordered mind. 

The young German was a perfect Apollo in strength 
and a trained athlete in the bargain, and his first move 
upon reaching the shore was to aim a blow at the 
stranger, which felled him to the earth at once. 

^Wou cowardly scoundrel, he exclaimed, ^T’d like 
to know who gave you the right to toss people into that 
lake as though they were so many pebbles scattered 
about for your amusement?’’ 

^^And I’d like to know,” returned the man, ^Svho gave 
you the right to hug and kiss Dorothy Merlebank?” 

^^That, sir, is none of your business. However, I may 
as well tell you that there is no such a person in exist- 
ence as Dorothy Merlebank. The lady you saw is my 
wife, Dorothy Wilmerding, and not in the least de- 
pendent upon you for protection.” 

^^How long has this lady been your wife?” asked the 
stranger. 

^^Though the matter does not in the least concern 
you,” replied Carl, prefer to answer your question 


220 


trutlifurty. Miss Merlebank became my wife while I 
was lying ill in the Duverney hospital, on the fifteenth 
of September last, less than a month ago, but I would 
request that yon keep silent upon the subject until our 
marriage is made public/’ 

^^Are you not both old enough to act upon your own 
discretion, regardless of the objection of others?” asked 
the man. 

“Our desire to keep the affair quiet arises from anoth- 
er reason altogether,” replied Carl, “yet I am sure you 
interest yourself upon the subject to a needless extent. 
What difference can it possibly make to you whether 
it has been a month, a year, or a dozen years since I 
made this lady my wife?” 

^‘See here, young man,” said the stranger, ^^your 
clothes are pretty wet from the ducking you got a few 
minutes ago, and the wind is blowing on you hard 
enough to give you pneumonia. If you’ll come with me 
to my lodging, about a quarter of a mile from here. I’ll 
lend you dry clothes, and I’ll tell you why I interest 
myself to such an extent in an affair that you say does 
not in the least concern me.” 

“I am unarmed,” replied (/arl; “how do I know but 
you are trying to lure me to destruction?” 

“I have no desire to infiict upon you any bodily in- 
jury, sir, though I dare say you will wish when I have 
told you all that your body was lying under the waters 
there, and the face of this Jezebel shut out from your 
vision forever.” 

“Hush, 3^011 scoundrel,” cried Carl. “Though this 
woman were nothing to me I will not listen to such in- 
sinuations.” 

“Wait until you know all, my friend,” replied the 
stranger. “As good men as you have been deceived by 
such women.” 

Carl followed him mechanically. He felt as though 
some awful nightmare Avere hanging over his life. To 
learn that Dorothy Avere untrue to him Avould be to kill 
all that Avas sweet and fair in his life. He hated the 
man for his insinuations, and yet there Avas a ring of 
truth in his words which was maddening. 


221 


The lodging to which the man had referred was a 
tumble-down cabin, situated just outside the boundary 
of ^‘Glymont,’’ and had doubtless belonged to the negro 
quarters in slavery days. Through the holes in the 
shingled roof the moonbeams hltered, and the artist 
saw by the dim light that a rude bed had been con- 
structed in one corner, and near it sat a trunk; one or 
two chairs completed the furniture of the room, and 
into one of these the artist dropped. The October night 
had grown chilly and he was shivering from the cold 
of the wet, clinging garments. 

His strange host proceeded to light a candle and 
bring out a suit of worn but neat garments, which the 
artist hurried to don. By the time he was done the 
man had brought a bundle of dry faggots and was 
kindling a fire on the stone hearth, and he invited Carl 
to draw nearer. 

^^Kow, my friend,’’ he said, will proceed to tell you 
what I know of the woman you say is your wife. Two 
months ago she married James Sinclair, the million- 
aire. On her bridal tour she met and fell in love with 
you. Through some hellish agent she has brought up 
this charge of bigamy against this old man who is as 
innocent of having tried to deceive her as you or I are. 
She knows by this plot she can extort money from the 
millionaire, and, with that money, live happily with 
you. To me she has confessed that she loves you, but 
I will tell you now, my friend, though ten thousand 
marriage ceremonies had been pronounced, that woman 
could never be your wife.” 

Carl sprang to his feet. 

^‘Scoundrel, what are you telling me? Do you expo t 
me to believe your false words?” 

do not ask you to believe me, sir; bnt read that, 
and tell me then if I lie. That is the original of a paper 
which the lady in question holds a copy of. Now you 
know why she tried to stab me. It was I for whom the 
blow was intended which came so near costing you 
your life, and it was Dorothy Merlebank who dealt that 
blow.” 

* Carl stood staring in the glowing fire with the vacant 


222 


stare t)f a maniac. Could it be possible that this awful 
stoiy were true? He could not believe that Dorothy, 
his beautiful Dorothy, were so false, and yet there lay 
before him the silent proof of her guilt, ten thousand 
times more accusing than any spoken words of the 
man could have been. 

The artist looked first at the paper and then at the 
face of the haggard man. 

^‘What is your name?’^ he asked. 

^^My name,’’ replied the man, ^fis just what you have 
read on that paper, John Dumbarton, though most of 
my friends call me Jack.” 

Carl drew a step nearer. 

‘^John Dumbarton,” he said, ^^you have told me a 
most incredible story, and yet I am forced to believe 
the evidence before me, but if I find that your words 
are only a malicious lie I’ll shoot you down as I would 
a dog. Now, tell, once for all, how much of this story 
is true?” 

^‘Every word of it, so help me God.” 

Without another word the German threw himself 
across the rude bed, and moaned in the agony of his 
soul. 

^^Oh, Dorothy, Dorothy, my beloved, would to God I 
had died ere I learned your shameful story!” 

The older man did not speak. He had foreseen the 
end from the beginning, and he saw that words would 
be wasted in trying to comfort the poor, crushed fellow. 
Carl shared the humble lodging that night, and the 
next day he left Washington; left without one word of 
farewell to Dorothy, and she believed him still lying 
at the bottom of the lake, yet dared not utter one word 
lest John Dumbarton should expose all to Mr. Sinclair, 
and in her heart she hated the young man worse than 
ever. However, she felt a sense of relief when she met 
Dumbarton at the lake the following night and he de- 
manded five hundred dollars, stating that he meant to 
try his luck in the gold fields of Australia. She could 
easily spare that much from the two thousand Mr. 
Sinclair had given her while in Paris and at the same 


223 


time rid herself of au intolerable nuisance in the shape 
of her unwelcome ^‘brother/^ 

For the first time in her life her shallow heart was 
touched at the thought of CarPs handsome, boyish face 
lying white and still under the water, but she kept to 
herself the awful secret, giving vent to her tears only 
when she was locked in her own chamber and there 
was no witness to her grief. 

Her dark e^^es grew weird and somber over much 
weeping, and Mr. Sinclair reproached himself more bit- 
terly each day for the shadow he had brought down 
upon her vonng life. 

Day by day came and went and still the secret of the 
lake remained unsolved. Except for the bitter hours 
Dorothy spent in the solitude of her own chamber in 
thinking of Carl, he had as coinj^letely dropped out of 
her life as though he had never existed. 

Mr. Sinclair, sitting alone in his librarv one morning, 
was surprised to see Dorothv coming toward him, a let- 
ter in her hand and a smile on her face. 

have come to ask a great favor, Mr. Sinclair. I 
hope you will grant it,’^ she said. 

“I shall be but too happy to be able to give yon 
pleasure, my dear,’’ replied the old man. ^^You have 
but to make your wishes known.” 

^^Thank you,” replied Dorothy, sweetly. have just 
received a letter from my old music master, Herr Ros- 
enfeld, and as he expects to come to Washington next 
week I wanted — that is, I thought, perhaps, you would 
let me invite him to ^Glymont.’ I’m sure he’d be de- 
lighted.” She had gotten over it all in such a childish, 
innocent way that any one might have been deceived. 
The old man was delighted. For several days past she 
had not addressed a word to him, and that she now 
asked a favor of him appeared to be sufficient evidence 
that she was softening toward him. 

^^Certainly, Dorothy, you have my full permission 
to invite whom you choose to ^Glymont.’ I give you 
carte blanche as to the preparations. Act just as though 
this were your father’s house, and do not for a moment 
think of consulting me in your plans.” 


224 


‘ riiaiik you/’ replied Dorothy; shall be very 
pleased to have my old friend here for a few days, and 
if 3^ou would not mind I should like to have the piano 
tuned before his arrival.” 

The old man looked a trifle worried. The piano had 
not been opened since Marguerite died, but he choked 
back the tears that forced themselves to his eyes in 
spite of all he could do, and in a quavering voice he 
replied : 

“Make any arrangements that suit you, Dorothy; this 
is your home as truly as it is mine.” 

Dorothy repeated her thanks and left the room. Had 
some royal personage been expected at ^‘Glymont” the 
preparations made would not have been more elabor- 
ate, and in due time the professor arrived. 

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of perhaps fifty 
3’^ears of age, wore his hair in curls that fell to his 
shoulders, and a heav}^, square-cut beard. His English 
was decidedly broken, and he confessed that he was 
making his first tour of the United States, though he 
declared the ^^old country” could offer nothing more 
charming than ^^Glymont,” and he was surprised to 
find anything so beautiful in America. To hear him 
talk one would think our New World had the reputa- 
tion of being a cannibal country, so surprised was the 
professor at any evidence of advancement on this side 
the water. 

Dorothy shook herself with laughter at the ludicrous 
speeches he made, while Mr. Sinclair thought l^je had 
never seen so odd a specimen of humanity, and, in spite 
of his endeavors to please and be pleased with Dor- 
othy’s friend, he found himself wishing Herr Rosen- 
feld back in his dear old ^^Shermany’’ a d<^^eu times a 
day. There was but one point on which the two men 
could agree. Both were warm friends of Baron Von 
Floville. Herr Bosenfeld had often visited him at his 
beautiful castle on the Rhine, and declared there was 
no finer estate in all Europe. 

Though Dorothy could not, under the existing state 
of affairs, appear in society, she lost no time in enjoying 
herself at home. Scarcely a day passed but half a dozen 


225 


of her friends were invited to ^‘Glymont/’ either to in- 
formal teas or dinners, and those who were fortunate 
enough to be included in these invitations were loud 
in their regrets that so charming a creature should be 
ousted from her position by the former wife of Mr. 
Sinclair. 

The first intimation that Dr. Merlebank had of the 
startling truth was through the paper in which Mr. 
Deswald had taken such particular pains to publish 
even the most minor details of Mr. Sinclair's first mar- 
riage. He felt like congratulating himself upon the 
precaution he had taken beforehand, and the day that 
Dorothy’s marriage was proved illegal he meant to 
spring upon them the most startling discovery ever 
brought before the public. At present it was impos- 
sible for him to leave the “Home Sanitarium,” other- 
wise he should have fiown at once to the scene of in- 
terest. By a later paper he saw that Herr Rosenfeld, 
a former music master of Miss Merlebank’s, was visit- 
ing “Glymont.” 

“Who in the wide world is Herr Rosenfeld?” he 
asked of Miss Flaxham, to whom he had just read the 
news. 

“How should I know?” returned that lady with a 
smile. “You may rest assured it is some one whom 
Dorothy proposes to utilize to the best advantage, oth- 
erwise she’d never put herself to so much trouble to 
make it pleasant for him, you may be sure.” 

“That girl is a mystery,” said the Doctor, “sometimes, 
’Delle, I almost doubt if she is really my child. We 
have not a thought in common and she cares no more 
for me than she does for her poodle.” 

Miss Flaxham turned her face away nervously: 

“You are talking nonsense, Jerry. It is from you she 
inherits her tricky traits. There were never two people 
more alike than yourself and Dorothy, though, to be 
sure, she inherits her dark, bewitching beauty from 
her Grecian mother, and perhaps her shrewdness, too. 
I’ll guarantee she’ll come out head and shoulders above 


8 


226 


every one else in this complicated case, regardless of 
her diminutive stature.’^ 

Dr. Merlebank smiled at the remark. 

‘^She would not do credit to your years of untiring 
training if she did not, ’Delle.’’ 

^^Look here, Jerr}^,’’ said Miss Flaxham, apparently 
ignoring the last remark, ^‘Fd venture my head that 
Herr Eosenfeld is no less a person than Stanley Von 
Floville. Yon know quite well that Dorothy never had 
a music teacher except myself, and the very fact that 
he should assume a German professorship seems to me 
conclusive jjroof that it is he, and if my surmise is cor- 
rect you may rest assured he is playing for high stages, 
and poor little Dorothy, in utter ignorance of his char- 
acter, may think he is doing her an immense service.’^ 
dare say Ikl better take a run down to ^Glymont^ 
and satisfy myself on this point,’’ said the doctor. ^Gf 
we can’t make sure of this money one way we will have 
to resort to another, and I have not forgiven Von Flo- 
ville for the last shabby trick he played me. No danger 
of his marrying the heiress now, though. Ha! ha! ha!” 

^d)on’t be reckless, Jerry; yon know it often brings 
about bad results. Von Floville is a desperate man 
when he is aroused. Don’t rush too precipitately into 
danger. My surmises may be entirely incorrect.” 

^‘However, I shall run down to Washington to-night. 
It is quite natural that I should want to see my daugh- 
ter after a two months’ separation, isn’t it?” 

Miss Flaxham did not object to the Doctor’s arrange- 
ment, and promptly at midnight the following night 
he arrived in W^ashington. Hailing the first cabman, 
he sprang into a cab and drove at once to ^^Glymont.” 

A dim light was burning in the western wing of the 
mansion, in the rooms directly over the suite the Doctor 
had occupied during his stay at ^^Glymont.” Evidently 
this suite had been assigned to Herr Eosenfeld. 

The odor of a cigar was wafted to the Doctor and 
the sound of a footfall on the gravel behind him caused 
him to turn. A tall man, in full evening dress, was pac- 
ing leisurely back and forth across the terrace. Merle- 
bank saw his chance in a minute. Stepping up to the 


227 


stranger he doffed his hat and in the most polite man 
ner possible, asked: 

^^Do I address Herr Rosenfeld?’^ 

The professor stroked his beard softly. 

^^Dot vas my name, sir,” he replied. 

^‘May I ask if there is also a gentleman, Baron Von 
Floville, staying at ^Glymont?^ ” 

^^Dere vas no other shentleman except Meester Sin- 
clair at ^Glymonff to my knowletge, sir.” 

The Doctor dropped his grip. 

^^See here, Stanley; I know you a trifle too well to 
be fooled by any of your clever tricks. What the devil 
do you mean by masquerading under the title of Pro- 
fessor of Music? I suppose this is some scheme you 
have plotted to cheat my daughter out of her husband’s 
fortune?” 

The professor had taken a step or two backward and 
stood stroking his beard. 

“Great Cott, ish dees cifillised America? Pegone, 
you lunatic, pefore I call up de serfents to lock you up. 
Surely no seech a man as you have a taughter in dees 
house.” 

“Come, none of your theatricals, Stanley; I’m up to 
that sort of thing,” exclaimed the Doctor, giving the 
professor a jerk by the whiskers, and the next moment 
Herr Eosenfeld’s crisp curls and smooth beard were 
lying on the ground, and before Dr. Merlebank stood a 
man with a crop of short, iron-gray hair, a nicely dyed 
mustache, and a clean-shaven chin. 

“Oh, mine Cott, mine Cott, vat vill you do? I vear 
dose dings to hide de marks of de small-pox, and you 
vill make me tell de whole story. Vill you not go in 
and make your peesness knoAvn to de master of ^Gly- 
mont?’ I haf nothing to do vith your taughter’s for- 
tune.” 

“My business is with you, not the master of ‘Gly- 
mont,’ Von Floville, and I mean to have it out with you 
here and now,” said Merlebank. 

“I vill not stay here to pe insulted. I vill go to my 
room and lock de door to keep out such persons as you,” 
said the professor, bolting by the Doctor in a mad rush 


228 

to reach the door, and carrying his wig and whiskers 
in his hand. He entered the house by a side entrance, 
and Dr. Merlebank ascended the stone steps, rang the 
bell for admittance, and as old Peter, rubbing his 
sleepy eyes, opened the door, letting out a flood of light, 
the Doctor saw before him an immense basket, carefully 
pushed to one side of the piazza, near the door. Curi- 
osity prompted him to turn back the cover, and to his 
astonished eyes was revealed the face of a sleeping 
child — once more at the door of ‘^GlymonP^ had been 
left — little Lillian, the waif. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


MISS STOCKTON AND DAISY STAFFORD. 

WHEN Miss Flaxham took the glass of wine to Daisy 
Stafford on the morning of Miss Stockton^s arrival she 
dropped into it a small dose of sulphonal, a drug which 
produces refreshing sleep without any of the bad ef- 
fects which usually follow the use of opiates. 

Daisy did not awaken until past three o^clock, and 
when she opened her eyes Dr. Garrison was standing 
beside the bed. She looked questioningly up at the 
doctor. 

hope she is still here/’ she said. 

‘Won hope who is still here, Daisy?” asked Dr. Gar- 
rison, fixing his eyes upon her in that peculiar, search- 
ing way which seemed so essentially his own. 

^Why, the little lady with the soft white curls. I 
saw her come up the walk, and I’m sure she is some 
one I knew before the ship was burned. I almost re- 
membered her name. Miss — Miss — oh, dear, why will 
my head ache so when I try to remember people’s 
names? Thank Heaven, there is Mrs. Valwin, dear, 
sweet Mrs. Valwin, and her kind husband. It doesn’t 
hurt my head to think of them. Mrs. Valwin asked me 
to come to see her, Dr. Garrison. Do you think I might 
go very soon?” 

^H’m sure you can, my dear, only you mustn’t worry 
about anything or it will cause your poor mother to get 
worse, and you know she is not strong since the boat 
was burned. That was a great shock to her.” 

^^Oh, I remember that very well. It was so horrible 
to see the flames mounting higher and higher and know 
that there was nothing to do but remain on deck and 


230 


be burned alive or plunge into the water and trust to 
the mercy of the waves.’’ 

‘‘But you were saved, Daisy; isn’t that a comfort now, 
to know that when all earthly power could avail noth- 
ing there was a Supreme Being who brought you safely 
to shore, and spared your dear mother to you also?” 

“Yes, yes, it was all so very good and great. Dr. Gar- 
rison, and yet I’m sure I miss something. There was 
some one who loved, some one who used to call me his 
star-eyed — star-eyed — oh, why can’t I remember the 
rest? It comes up in my mind and just as I am about 
to speak the words that sharp pain in my head cuts it 
off again. I wish I had died when the ship was 
burned.” 

“Dais3^, Daisy, you must not give way to this feeling. 
God was very good to spare you, and you should feel 
grateful for his mercies. Think how your mother 
would have suffered if you had been lost. You have 
had another of your delusive dreams, I fear, and are not 
yet recovered from the shock.” 

“No, it was not a dream. I tell you, I know he loved 
me, I know — there, it is gone again,” and the poor child 
burst into tears. “It is no use, I can’t remember.” 

Dr. Garrison brushed the curls back from her brow, 
and bending over her he murmured softly: “Never 
mind, dearie, it will be all right by and by. Your 
mother will soon be well and you can go back to your 
old home, and your girl friends will be around you, and 
perhaps they can tell you the names you forget so 
often.” 

“May I see her?” asked Daisy, smiling through her 
tears. 

“Who, my dear?” asked the doctor. 

“Miss — Miss — why, the little lady with the pretty 
face and soft white curls.” 

“Certainly you may, only you must not spoil your 
pretty blue eyes with tears before you come down ; you 
know first impressions are always the most lasting, 
and I want this lady to see my pretty wild fiower at 
its best. I will send Mrs. Garrison to help you dress, 
as it is almost time for dinner.” 


231 


^‘Time for dinner,” echoed Daisy; “why, 1 am sure it 
was only half an hour ago that 1 left the breakfast 
table to read to Mrs. Garrison.’^ 

^‘l^ou have been asleep, Daisy, and were not aware of 
the flight of time. It is almost four o’clock.’’ 

^^Dear me,” sighed Daisy, seem to have lost all 
track of time and events. If Mrs. Garrison would be so 
kind as to help me dress.” 

shall request her to come up immediately,” re- 
plied Dr. Garrison, as he quitted the room. 

Dinner was always served at five o’clock at the 
Home Sanitarium, Dr. Garrison being of the opinion 
that it was better to have it at this hour than a later 
one. 

Miss Stockton was already in the dining-room when 
Daisy descended the stairs, and before Dr. Garrison or 
Miss Flaxham could utter a word in the way of intro- 
duction, the girl had throAvn her arms around the little 
lady’s neck and was murmuring fondly: 

^^Oh, I know you, I know you, dear, dear. Miss — oh, ' 
why can’t I remember the name. You know me, don’t 
you, my dear old friend?” 

^^Certainly I know you, dearie,” replied Miss Stock- 
ton soothingly. Dr. Garrison had already informed her 
of the condition of the young girl’s mind. ^^Of course I 
know you. You are Daisy Stafford, one of my old 
pqpils. Yow, there, isn’t that clear to vou?” 

^^Yes, oh, yes; I remember now. Miss Stockton, dear 
Miss Stockton. Oh, how glad I am to see you.” 

Dr. Garrison stepped up to the girl’s side. 

^G’here, Daisy, you must not excite yourself. Come, 
we will have dinner now, and afterward you can take 
a walk with your teacher and talk over old times to 
your heart’s content.” 

Daisy never rebelled against Dr. Garrison’s instruc- 
tions, but she loosened her arm rather reluctantly from 
Miss Stockton’s neck and took her seat at the table. 

During the meal she was rather silent, but ever and 
anon she would raise her eyes lovingly to the fair old 
face opposite, but as often as she did so they would 


232 


wander in the direction of Dr. Garrison, whose eyes 
she invariably found fixed on her face. 

Miss Stockton smiled approvingly on her each time, 
but the train of her thoughts was gone, and by the 
time dinner was over she accorded her only the l3land 
smiles and mechanical replies that she gave to every 
one at the ^^Home Sanitarium.^’ 

Miss Stockton was nonplussed. This strange creat- 
ure was not the same winsome child she had known 
in former years, and the sad, dark-eyed mother was an 
entirely different person from the gay-spirited lady 
who had confided her little daughter to the teacher’s 
care many years ago. Little Daisy Stafford, whom she 
had known, if Miss Stockton remembered correctly, 
had a mass of rich brown hair falling in ringlets 
around a dimpled face. The young lady she now saw 
as Daisy Stafford possessed a beautiful oval face, fair, 
spirituelle, and free from the slightest suspicion of 
dimpled roundness, surmounted by a crown of hair as 
black and glossy as a raven’s wing, and yet, ten years 
may do much in the way of changing one’s identity. 
Miss Stockton, taking a retrospective glance, was 
ready to admit that very few people looking at the 
fair little lady who smiled back at her from the 
mirror, would have recognized her as the brilliant, 
society-loving woman whose heart had beat to 
the sweet, glad tuue of love, when James Sin- 
clair was near, and that was no less than a score of 
years ago. Ah, well. Time, the Destro^^er, may be also 
called Time, the Healer. The wounds in Alice Stock- 
ton’s heart had ceased to bleed, though Time had not 
dimmed the memory of those happy days, and deep 
down in her inmost soul the secret was locked safely 
away from the eyes of the world. Yet to this day the 
thought thrilled her heart, even the sound of his name 
had power to bring back the warm glow to her cheeks 
and the sparkle to her faded old eyes. She locked her 
hands, after the fashion of a schoolgirl, over her soft 
white hair, and paced back and forth across her room. 
After all, was it not for his sake she was here? 

Dr. Merlebank had never heard of such a person as 


233 


Miss Stockton, and it never entered bis mind that the 
quiet old lady was in any way connected with the fam- 
ily whose destruction he was seeking to accomplish, 
and it was without the slightest of misgivings that he 
left the Sanitarium and the quiet little lady whom 
Daisy Stafford had so strangely ignored since the first 
day of her arrival. 

Moreover, he felt that Dr. Garrison was a man to be 
trusted regardless of the mysterious shadow which had 
hung over his life for some time past, and now that 
William Stuyvesant was dead. Dr. Merlebank knew 
that his power over the man ended, and the services 
rendered him by Dr. Garrison were now nothing more 
than any other physician might have done for the same 
amount of money. These services to an outsider would 
have seemed nothing more nor less than keeping up 
the ^tHome Sanitarium,’’ and how two physicians could 
afford to run such a big institution for the accommoda- 
tion of three patients, all poor persons at that, would 
have been a never-ending source of wonder. That 
Daisy Stafford had been a pupil of Miss Stockton’s Dr. 
Garrison never for a moment doubted, and in conse- 
quence he gave very little thought to the fact that the 
teacher manifested a remarkable degree of interest in 
the girl’s condition. 

It was on the morning following Dr. Merlebank’s 
departure that Daisy entered the library where Dr. 
Garrison and Miss Stockton were engaged in conversa- 
tion, her face the very picture of blank dismay. 

^^Oh, Dr. Garrison,” she cried, ^‘pardon me for this 
interruption, but I fear I am lost; I can not find my way 
to the lake, and I’m sure I knew how to go there only 
yesterday.” 

^^Never mind, Daisy, I will show you the way. I dare 
say you have taken the wrong path and by doing so 
have lost your bearing,” said the doctor, his face grow- 
ing a trifle red under Miss Sto(‘kton’s questioninc: gaze; 
^^or, perhaps, you would rather have Mrs. Garrison ac- 
company you,” he added, seeing that some explanation 
was necessary. 

^Gf Mrs. Garrison would be so kind,” replied Daisy, 


234 


irresistibly attracted by the doctor’s searching eyes. 
^^Oh! I see the water now,” she exclaimed, as Miss Flax- 
ham appeared in response to the bell. ‘‘How foolish of 
me not to look in that direction before. Dear Mrs. Gar- 
rison, pray do not trouble yourself to accompany me.” 

Miss Flaxham laid her hand gently on the girl’s arm. 

“It is no trouble at all, my dear. I shall be delighted 
i o watch you take your morning dip,” she said, as they 
strolled across the lawn, Daisy leading the way. 

“Pray tell me what it all means,” said Miss Stocktrui, 
as they left the room. 

Dr. Garrison smiled pleasantly. 

“It is one of their delusions. Miss Stockton, which 
seems to afford an unlimited amount of pleasure, so 
I have not taken the trouble to- correct it. So long as 
it does no harm I am loth to undeceive her.” 

“Oh, it is pitiful, pitiful,” sighed Miss Stockton, as 
she watched from the window to see Daisy step upon 
the pier and give a spring over into the lake. 

“Father say it is immense fun,” replied Dr. Garrison. 
“You should accompany ns on a sail aboard the Althea, 
and see how she enjo3^s it.” 

Miss Stockton turned from the window and burst in- 
to tears. 

“I think I, too, should go mad if I had to witness that 
scene every day. Poor, deluded child! Where will it 
all end?” 

If she were distressing herself over Daisy Stafford 
she was certainly ex^jending an unnecessary amount 
of sympathy, for the young girl’s merry laughter rang 
out on the morning air as clear and sweet as the carol 
of a bird, as she dipped her head beneath the water 
and came up, shaking her raven tresses like a mermaid. 

Miss Flaxham kept discreetly near the shore, and 
when Daisy entreated her to take “just one dip,” she 
always replied that water had no attraction for her, 
whereupon Daisy would “splash a great shower” over 
her head and declare the “crystal drops looked like so 
many diamonds sparkling in her hair and on her black 
dress.” 

Of Mrs. Stafford Miss Stockton saAv very little, and 


235 


Mr. Hilburn usually had liis meals served in liis room, 
and rarely left it, except to request Dr. Garrison to 
come up and express liis opinion upon certain pictures 
he was engaged upon, his particular idea being that 
he was a great artist, and was filling orders for por- 
traits of famous persons. These persons, he said, he 
had known personally, and could paint them from 
memory without the least trouble, and from the can- 
vas he smeared with cheap paints he fancied he saw 
handsome men and regal women. 

Mrs. Stafford sat quietly in her room, busying her- 
self with some light 'embroidery or lace making while 
she waited for her husband’s return, believing him to 
be battling with the waves of the ocean, strapped to a 
charred piece of timber from the boat which was 
burned. 

Daisy was to be married, she said, as soon as her 
father came home. Of course, he must be there to 
give his only daughter away. 

Miss Stockton thought she had never seen any one 
half so sad, but when Dr. Garrison depicted to her the 
horrors of that midnight awakening when the waves 
were lashing in fury a2:ainst the doomed boat and the 
fier^^ tongues of lightning played over the masts like 
so many serpents of flame, the cry of the captain that 
the ship was on fire, the mad rush for the lifeboats, 
the days and nights that followed when they floated on 
the broad breast of the ocean with only a few planks 
between them and the merciless deep, only the blue 
sky for shelter, she was not surprised that the poor, 
frightened creatures had lost their reason. 

The tender-hearted little woman wept many bitter 
tears after that day, and not least of them were shed 
over the shocking story of James Sinclair's marriage 
as told in the Washington papers which arrived at the 
^^Home Sanitarium’^ two days after the news became 
known in the Capitol City. 

That Marguerite Courtney, his dearly-loved grand- 
daughter, was beyond the reach of this terrible shock 
appeared in the light of a blessing to the sorrowful 
little teacher, who found it so hard to believe such 


23G 


dreadful things of the man she loved — yes, loved, 
with all the strength of her faithful old heart. 

All trace of recent tears were gone from her eyes 
when she went down stairs. The love which had been 
a secret locked in her heart for twenty long years would 
remain a secret still, and yet, did anything ever escape 
the shrewd, penetrating eyes of Adelle Flaxham? 


u. 

i 


CHAPTER XXVlll. 


TWO STRANGE CABLEGRAMS. 

WHEN Dr. Merlebank saw that it was little Lillian 
again at the door of ‘^Glymont’’ he gave vent to his 
disgust by a low-muttered oath. 

^‘It^s that devilish brat again/’ he said in reply to 
Peter’s look of astonishment, and, passing the child 
by as though it had been a stray cat or dog, he entered 
the house, turning to say to the old butler — 

“You need not disturb any one to say that I am 
here. I shall go to my room at once and you can an- 
nounce my arrival in the morning.” 

Peter scarcely waited until the sentence was fin- 
ished before he was out on the piazza, and, gathering 
up the basket as though it held some priceless treasure, 
he crept through the hall to old Becky’s room, de- 
posited it on a chair beside the bed, and shook his wife 
vigorously by the arm, exclaiming as he did so: 

“Wake up, ole ’ooman, wake up; our bressed little 
lamb is ’stored to us alibe an’ well! Wake up an’ 
praise de Lawd!” 

Aroused from her slumbers by his talking, the baby 
sat up a lusty yell which brought old Becky to her 
feet in an instant, and when she saw that it was 
really the sweet little waif whose coming and going, 
and coming again to the doors of “Glymont” were an 
equal mystery, she lifted up her hands and cried joy- 
fully: 

“Oh, bress de Lawd! oh, bress de Lawd! It’s my 
precious baby come back to me again.” 

Mr. Sinclair was quite as happily surprised as tlie 
servants had been when he learned that the child 
was restored to them, though every one remained in 


238 


ignorance as to where she had been kept during the 
two months of her absence from ^‘Glymont.'^ 

At first Dr. Merlebank was undecided whaf stand to 
take toward Mr. Sinclair in regard to his nOation to 
Dorothy, but he was not long in concluding that it 
were better to remain upon friendly terms with the 
old man until he could learn the full particulars of Mr. 
Deswald’s intentions. 

Mr. Sinclair found it hard to speak upon the subject, 
and for several days the two men met just as though 
nothing had happened, and Dorothy smiled significant- 
ly at her father’s diplomacy, knowing quite well that 
he had some motive back of all this extreme reserve 
and consideration for the old man’s feelings. 

The Doctor was only biding his time, and as soon 
as he learned the full particulars his busy brain was 
ready with a plot which would turn the tide of affairs 
in his own channel again. No vampire, hovering over 
the body of some dying victim, could have been more 
eager to pounce upon the corpse than he was to clutch 
in his greedy hands the poor old man’s gold, and the 
shrewd little law-breaker knew quite enough of the 
world and its ways to manage his plans in such a way 
that to catch up with him would take the expert work 
of a professional. He did not fail to keep an eye on 
Herr Eosenfeld, whom he still looked upon with dis- 
trust. Dorothy simply laughed at his suspicion that 
Von Floville and the professor were one and the same. 
The Doctor felt certain that Yon Floville knew no 
more of music than he did of surgery, and as a means 
of testing the learned professor he developed a sudden 
love for music which had never manifested itself be- 
fore. When pressed for a selection, Herr Eosenfeld 
replied : 

^^Mit der greatest pleasure,” and, seating himself be- 
fore the elegant Steinway, he ran his shapely fingers 
lightly over the keys, and at his touch the melod}^ 
broke from the chords like a strain let out from the 
choirs above. Such soft echoes of whispering winds, 
such grand swell of the cataract’s roar, made one feel 
as if the spirit of some grand old master hovered over 


239 


the piano and evoked the music from the responsive 
strings. 

Dorothy was dumfounded when, with a last sweep 
of his fingers, the music died away in a murmur, like 
the low sighing of the breeze when the storm is past 
and the tempest-tossed trees lull themselves to still- 
ness in the sweetness of returning calm. 

Dr. Merlebank found his knowledge of subjects com- 
pletely exhausted, and still the professor played on, 
apparently oblivious to everything except the divine 
strains bursting from the imprisoning keys, responsive 
to his lightest touch. 

^^Yon Floville could never have done that,’’ muttered 
Dr. Merlebank to himself, as he rode away in the di- 
rection of the city, dim and enchanting as some beauti- 
ful mirage in the distance under the dickering softness 
of electric lights. 

The clocks in the distant belfries were chiming the 
hour of twelve, and the stars, bold in their persistent 
twinkle an hour ago, were paling before the light of a 
waning moon, when a series of pulls upon the bell re- 
verberated through the halls and woke the members 
of the household at ^^Glymont” from their i)eaceful 
slumbers. 

Old Peter’s faded eyes saw nothing unusual about 
the messenger boy who thrust an envelope into his 
hand, and hurriedly mounted the bicycle uj)on which 
he had ridden the two miles which lay between the city 
and the home of the Sinclairs. 

Dorothy, standing at the top of the stair in flowing 
robe de nuit, stared at the yellow envelope in dismay. 

^^Oh, Peter, what can it mean?” she cried, like a 
frightened child. 

^^Nuffin berry dreadful. Miss Dorothy; old Marse 
often gets ’spatches in de middle of de night.” 

Dorothy would have taken it from his hand, but 
Peter kept his brown fingers discreetly closed over it 
until he reached his master’s room. Mr. Sinclair sat 
up in bed, and after Peter had brought his glasses and 
turned the light properly he read what proved to be a 


240 


cablegram. It was from Mr. Deswald and ran as fol- 
lows: 

^Taris, France, Oct. 21, 18 — . 
^‘Mr. James Sinclair, Glymont, D. C.: 

^‘Have investigated the case of Elia Chelini and 
found that she is an impostor. Miss Merlebank is your 
lawful wife. Do not wait upon me. I have decided 
to visit the Holy Land before returning to America. 
Employ a lawyer to draw up your will at once and 
avoid further annoyance. Herbert Deswald.” 

^^Take that to Mrs. Sinclair at once,” said the old 
man, joyfully, as he gave Peter the slip of yellow 
paper, and as the old darky left the room his master 
sprang out of bed with the agility of a schoolboy and 
.began donning his clothes. 

Dorothy had barely finished reading the startling 
news before he entered the room, caught her in his 
arms and exclaimed: 

Dorothy, my wife, my darling wife, thank God I 
did not deceive you after all. You are my wife; think 
of it, dear; our marriage was lawful, and that woman 
an impostor. There will be no occasion to divide my 
money now; it is all yours, every dollar of it, dearest. 
Are you not glad we left it to our old friend, Deswald? 
I knew he would make it all right if any one could.” 

is all yours, evei'y dollar of it, dearest Those were 
the words that caused Dorothy to place her arms 
around the old man’s neck and murmur softly: 

‘‘Yes, Mr. Sinclair; I feel like going down on my 
knees to thank God for His goodness and to beg your 
pardon for the harsh things I said when I believed 
you had deceived me.” 

“Never mind about that, dearest,” said Mr. Sinclair. 
“It was only natural that you should have very bitter 
feelings against me when you thought I was such a 
monster. Thank God, there is no other secret in my 
life, dear one, that can come to mar our happiness. 
Only say that you forgive me, Dorothy, for having 
brought this sorrow down upon vour head.” 

“Yes, Mr. Sinclair, I freely forgive you, as the future 
shall prove, and I trust you will not find it hard to 


241 


forget my cruel words the day that false woman broke 
in upon our charming little home/’ 

‘'That is all past, my Avife; we will forget it and try 
to make the future drive from our minds all remem- 
brance of that wretched event.” 

“You are more than kind, my husband,” said Doro- 
thy, with a sleepy yaAvn, none the less effective because 
it was a fraudulent one. 

“Ah, my pet, you are tired, and I have thoughtlessly 
kept you up so long. Go back to your rest and woo the 
roses to your cheeks and the starry light to your eyes. 
We shall publicly celebrate our happiness to-morrow. 
One kiss, and I Avill be off, to dream of the joyful news 
I have received, and the precious trjeasure that is all 
my own.” 

“Good-night, my dear husband,” murmured the little 
fraud, raising her lips to be kissed; “I wish you pleas- 
ant dreams.” 

“Ugh!” she muttered, disgustedly brushing her hand 
across her lips as he left the room. “How I hate the 
old graybeard’s caresses!” 

At the same hour that Mr. Sinclair was so joyously 
receiving the news of Mr. Desw aid’s investigation of 
Elia Chelini’s fraudulent claim, the old lawyer was puz- 
zling his brain over a mysterious message from the 
opposite shore of the Atlantic, which had just been 
handed to him by one of the porters at “La Hotel Nor- 
mandie.” He had to read it over a second time to 
make sure he Avas not dreaming, and even then he 
could scarcely believe his own eyes. The message ran : 

“Washington, D. C., U. S. A., Oct. 21, 18 — . 
“Herbert Desaa^ald, La Hotel Normandie, Paris, 
France : 

“I sail for Paris to-morroAv. Make no further at- 
tempt at investigation until I arrive. Startling facts 
revealed. James Sinclair.” 

Mr. Deswald at once surmised that Mr. Sinclair had 
learned of Dorothy’s secret marriage to Carl, and, 
tosMng the cablegram on a table, he crept back to bed, 
and sleep Lad soon banished from his mind all thought 


242 


of the mysterious complications and strange secrets 
the past ten months had brought to light. 

An extra edition of the morning papers announced 
to society the welcome news that Dorothy Merlebank 
was Mrs. James Sinclair, after all, and the social 
world was in a glow of delight over the happy ending 
of the strange romance. Half of the gay belles who 
had known the millionaire’s wife before her marriage 
and who had been so loud in their denunciation of the 
old man a short time past were now declaring that it 
was delightful to be able to create such a romantic 
sensation. 

As early as ten o’clock carriages began to arrive at 
^^Glymont,” and Dorothy, gowned in a gossamer-like 
cloud of silk and lace, fresh from the hands of Worth, 
stood in the drawing-room receiving the congratula- 
tions of her friends. At her side stood Mr. Sinclair, 
looking ten vears younger, with the glad light of his 
new happiness beaming on his face. The day proved 
a very gala-day at ^‘Glymont”, and at its close satis- 
faction was depicted upon no countenance more clear- 
ly than it was upon Dr. Merlebank’s. 

The guests had monopolized his daughter through 
the entire day, so there had been no time for more 
than a passing smile for him, but the Doctor waited 
in patience until he saw the last carriage roll away 
under the light of the stars, and then he stepped to 
Dorothy’s side. 

‘^Can you spare me half an hour now?” he asked. 

^>Why, certainly, papa mine,” replied Dorothy, gaily, 
linking her arm in his and starting toward the ter- 
race. 

^W^e will go down by the lake,” said the Doctor, 
turning aside, but Dorothy shook like an aspen and 
pleaded — 

^^Oh, papa, for Heaven’s sake don’t go down by that 
gloomy old vault. I can’t bear to pass ’ daylight. 
I always fancy I see Marguerite Courti. yes fixed 
upon me as though she would accuse nn ' deaxu.” 

^A^ou have grown very fanciful, Dor< ' Yo\\ had 


243 


nothing to do with Marguerite Courtney’s death. That 
crime lies at Jack Dumbarton’s door.” 

can not help it,” replied Dorothy. will not 
pass the vault to go to the lake. What you have to 
say you can say to me here; there is no one to listen.” 

We could never credit Dorothy with any feeling of 
timidity about passing the vault, since she had been 
to the lake at a far later hour than this on several 
occasions. Her fear rose from nothing but the thought 
that she would one day find Carl Wilmerding’s lifeless 
body fioating on the water, and she knew quite well 
that such a sight would drive her mad. 

^^Then we will pause here,” said Dr. Merlebank, lead- 
ing the way to a rustic seat near the edge of the ter- 
race. ^Hn the first place,” he began, ^Ve now have 
matters entirely in our own hands. Deswald is in Eu- 
rope; if we can only induce the old fool to make his 
will at once, and in your favor, it is only a question of a 
few weeks when we shall be heirs to a million^’ 

^^By wdiat means do you hope to accomplish this?” 
asked Dorothy. 

^^By the self-same means I hoped to accomplish it 
before,” replied the Doctor; ^^only I must have a little 
of your co-operation this time.” 

will not compromise myself,” said Dorothy, with 
determination. 

^^No one wants 3^011 to compromise yourself. You 
have simpl3" to use 3^our infiuence to get the will made. 
I shall do the rest, if you agree to pa3" me for my 
trouble.” 

thought we had alread}" agreed upon this affair, 
papa.” 

^^So we did; but I understand that there have been 
subsequent arrangements hit upon by yourself and 
Stanley Von Floville, now masquerading under the 
name of Herr jRosenfeld.” 

‘Then certainH understood something of 

wh^rh I a :otal ignorance. I have not seen Stan- 
ley Von Fh g since I left ‘Glymont’ on my wedding 
tour, and as * Herr Bosenfeld being other than what 
he seems, y« u are entirely mistaken. He is the pro- 


244 


fessor from whom 1 took lessons the winter ’Delle 
was in the Provence Hospital, a fact which I kept 
secret because I knew she would object to my paying 
twenty francs for a lesson, the amount Herr Kosen- 
feld charged for a single hour.’’ 

“Dorothy, is this the truth?” 

“Have I been in the habit of telling you untruths, 
papa?” 

“I am not asking about your habits. I want to 
know if this is the truth.” 

“If you insist upon a direct answer, it is the truth, 
pure and unadulterated.” 

“You might have said so in the beginning. How 
much do you propose to pay me for the work I shall 
do?” 

“The same I promised once before — one-half of every 
dollar I inherit from my husband.” 

“Very well,” replied the doctor, “the work shall be 
done; but take warning, Dorothy. If you fail to keep 
your promise I swear you shall regret it to your dying 
day. I have the means of making you do so, and I shall 
not be slow to enforce my power.” 

“Don’t try to frighten me into submission, papa. I 
usually pay my debts, and I have never yet cheated 
you out of anything you earned.” 

“I trust you,” said the Doctor, “because I have you 
in my power. Shall we return to the house?” 

“You may go; I shall remain here for a while,” re- 
plied Dorothy, drawing her scarf more closely around 
her bare throat. 

The door had scarcely closed behind the Doctor’s 
chubby little figure when a tall, bearded man, easily 
recognized as Herr Posenfeld, emerged from the shad- 
ows and took his seat beside Dorothy. 

“Aren’t you agreeing to pay him a rather large fee 
for his services?” he asked, forgetting to apply a broad 
German accent to his words. 

“I agreed to pay him one-half of every dollar I in- 
herit from— hushand,^^ replied Dorothy, breaking 
into a musical laugh, in which the professor joined 
heartily. 


245 


^‘Oh, woman, thy name is shrewdness,’’ he quoted, 
patting Dorothy approvingly on the shoulder. It was 
long past midnight before the two separated to seek 
their respective rooms. Suzanne had turned the light 
down low, and as Dorothy closed the door softly to 
avoid disturbing any one who might be asleep, the 
blaze suddenly flared up, flooding the room with 
brightness and before her stood, not a bloated corpse 
from the still waters of the lake, but a man, not a 
ghost conjured up from the past to haunt her guilty 
heart, but her former lover, strong in the glow of per- 
fect health, towering above her like a giant in his in- 
dignant scorn, and she lifted her cowering gaze to meet 
the accusing eyes of Carl Wilmerding. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


A EEVENGE WITHDKAWN. 

FOE a full minute the two stood staring at each other 
in dumb silence. Mingled feelings of rage, longing 
for revenge, and wounded love flitted alternately over 
the artistes face, while Dorothy stood riveted to the spot 
as one suddenly turned to stone, looking into the face 
she adored with the helpless expression of a dying- 
person; then with a wail, such as one might expect to 
hear from a lost soul viewing for the flrst time the 
abyss of darkness into which it must eternally plunge, 
she dropped limp and insensible at his feet. 

In an instant the feeling of vengeance that had 
prompted the young man to enter the house by stealth 
was gone, and over his softened features crept an 
expression of infinite pity. Bending tenderly over the 
inanimate form he lifted her tenderly and laid her 
across the bed, murmuring fondly: 

^^My poor, misguided Dorothy. Perhaps you were 
not so much to blame, after all. You had no loving 
mother to guide your young feet over the thorny ways 
of temptation, and your wayward, undisciplined heart 
has proved too weak for the test. May God in His 
goodness mete you mercy, not justice, for the lives you 
have wrecked. I leave it all to Him.’’ As he ceased 
speaking he pressed his lips to hers in a long farewell 
kiss, and, as if his touch were enough to bring her back, 
though she liad lain cold and dead, a sigh, deep-drawn 
and heart-felt, fluttered over her lips. Carl saw that 
she was recovering consciousness, and fearing to risk 
anotlier moment in her presence he glided noiselessly 
from the room and left the house as mysteriously as 
he had entered it. 


247 


Suzanne, going up the next morning to take coffee 
and rolls to her mistress, found her lying just as Carl 
had left her, still dressed in the low-necked dress and 
silken scarf she had worn the evening before. She 
had recovered consciousness, and believing it was the 
spirit of her lover come back to haunt her, had sobbed 
herself to sleep. The maid was frightened half out of 
her wits for a few moments, but she drew nearer the 
bedside and saw that Dorothy was breathing regularly, 
so she shook her gently and said: 

“Madame, Madame, will you not have your coffee 
and rolls while they are still hot?’’ 

Dorothy started up and looked around with wide- 
open, frightened eyes. 

“How long have I been here?” she asked. 

“I do not know, Madame,” replied Suzanne. “I 
think I must liave dropped asleep a little early last 
night, as I did not hear you when you came in, and this 
morning I thought you’d be tired, having been so busy 
all day yesterday, so I would not disturb you until 
Becky was ready with your coffee.” 

“That was right,” said Dorothy slowly, rubbing her 
head as if it ached; “do not mention this to any one. 
I think I must have fainted. I remember being very 
tired when I came up, and I think I must have fallen; 
only I’m sure I don’t know how I reached the bed.” 

“Would Madame like her head bathed with some 
vau de cologne asked the maid, who, like all of her 
class, thought eau de cologne a panacea for all ills. 

“No, I think not,” said Dorothy; “you may do my 
hair and help me into one of my morning gowns — the 
pink crepe, I suppose.” 

Suzanne was so relieved that she did not get a sound 
scolding for her neglect of duty the night before that 
she moved about her work like a nimble-footed fairy, 
and by the time breakfast was ready Dorothy looked 
as radiant and beautiful as though no midnight visi- 
tant had ever disturbed her repose. Mr. Sinclair 
laughed as merrily over the Doctor’s jests at the table 
as a schoolboy over his first success at cricket, and 


248 


when the meal was over he invited Dorothy to accom- 
pany him on a drive to the city. 

The object of this drive was nothing more nor less 
than a trip to the leading jeweler’s, from which the 
deceitful little bride returned laden with jewels that a 
princess might have envied. 

For an hour before luncheon she was hovering over 
the piano, with Herr Kosenfeld laughing and criti- 
cising the various blunders she made in a single waltz 
song. The truth was, Dorothy had never possessed 
any talent for music, and she could not even practice 
the scale creditably. After listening as long as his 
cultivated ear would permit to the manner in which 
she butchered the simplest airs, the professor proposed 
a walk, to which Dorothy at once acquiesced. Mr. 
Sinclair had retired to his room for a nap, and Dr. 
Merlebank, taking advantage of the favorable circum- 
stances, stole into the wine cellar, presumably to get a 
glass of the old man’s favorite sherry. 

However, it seemed an odd circumstance that neither 
he nor his daughter ever tasted sherry after that, al- 
ways preferring the lighter clarets, or an occasional 
glass of Moselle, though Mr. Sinclair stuck to his sher- 
ry, declaring there was nothing better in his well- 
stocked cellar. 

Herr Kosenfeld had been at '^Glyniont” now two 
weeks, and he thought it was time he began liis tour 
of the States, otherwise he would not be able to reach 
Berlin in time for the Christmas exercises at the Bcu'lin 
Conservatory of Music, aud his name was on the pr'o 
gramme for half a dozen selections,, which rendered 
it necessarj^ that he should reach home in time to prac- 
tice up for the occasion. 

November was ushered in cold and cloudy, witl» a 
suspicion of snow on the breath of the wind. Mr. 
Sinclair hovered over the crackling fire and shivered 
at every gust that rattled the shutters or whistled 
around the turrets of the mansion. He feared the re- 
turn of winter would be very trying to his health, and 
upon several occasions he suggested to his wife that 
they spend the winter in Florida. Dorothy always 


249 


rebelled at these suggestions, telling him his blood was 
thin, and her father would prepare a tonic for him 
which would send the warm glow of health bounding 
through his veins like nectared wine. 

Dr. Merlebank prepared the tonic, but the old man 
continued to grow weaker, and before the day of 
Thanksgiving he was confined to his bed. Dorothy 
proved a ministering angel, giving him the tenderest 
of wifely care, and leaving nothing undone that would 
add to his comfort in the smallest degree. So success- 
fully did she put her heart into her work that even her 
stolid father believed she was learning to care for the 
old man who lived upon her smiles. 

He lavished his money upon her as though she were 
some royal princess, and was never content unless she 
was robed in silk and wearing jewels fit for a queen. 

^^Why do you not wear your diamonds, my love?^’ 
he asked one morning, when Dorothy appeared in his 
room without a jewel of any kind. 

^Tf it pleases you, I shall get them now,” said Doro- 
thy, returning to her room, only to come back in one 
minute, exclaiming: 

^^Oh, Mr. Sinclair, my diamonds — my beautiful dia- 
monds — are all gone!” 

^^Why, dearest, surely you are mistaken,” said the 
old man, raising himself in bed. ^^No doubt Suzanne 
has locked them up somewhere for safe keeping. DonT. 
be alarmed until you have made a thorough search for 
them.” 

Suzanne was called and every place they could think 
of searched for the missing gems. The servants were 
all brought up and questioned, but nothing could be 
learned from any of tliem. Further investigation 
proved that Mr. Sinclair’s safe had been opened and 
several hundred dollars in gold taken from it. That 
the robber}^ had been perpetrated by experts was be- 
yond dispute, and so cleverly had they covered up their 
tracks that it had not been discovered until several 
days afterward. The diamonds alone represented a 
comfortable fortune, and Dorothy wept her eyes almost 
out over the loss. 


250 


Dr. Merlebank shook liis head significantly and gave 
his opinion that the robbery could be traced back to the 
night of Herr Rosenfeld’s departure. He had always 
looked upon the professor with suspicion, and he fully 
believed that once the detectives could track him they 
would be certain of their man. But the strangest 
thing of all — the professor was not to be found. 
Whether intentionally or not, so completely had he 
hidden himself that it looked as if the earth might 
have opened up and swallowed him. 

Mr. Sinclair seriously regretted the absence of Mr. 
Deswald. He had unbounded confidence in his old 
lawyer, and believed that he could have fathomed the' 
mystery at once. There was no one in particular upon 
whom they could fasten suspicion, unless, indeed, Herr 
Rosenfeld could be called the guilty one, and yet the 
diamonds were surely gone. 

After the first few days Dorothy gave up her treas- 
ures with a sort of despairing grace, and she smiled 
when she said grieving would not bring them back, and 
Mr. Sinclair warmly replied that she had taken the 
only sensible view of the case. 

By the first of December winter seemed to have 
burst upon Washington in dead earnest. Mr. Sinclair 
continued to grow worse under the depressing influ- 
ence of the cold weather, and Dr. Merlebank strongly 
asserted that the services of a trained nurse were ab- 
solutely necessary. From the depth of his heart Mr. 
Sinclair hated trained nurses; they always did him 
more harm than good, he said, but the Doctor knew 
the old man’s weak point, and when he told him that 
Dorothy was growing thinner and paler every day, the 
old man immediately consented, and a telegram sum- 
moning Miss Flaxham was dispatched forthwith. 

Dr. Garrison found it hard to console Daisy Stafford 
when she learned that ^Mear Mrs. Garrison was to leave 
them for several weeks to visit her dying mother,” but 
Miss Stockton kindly promised to fill her place until 
she could return, a promise which the sweet-faced little 
teacher had not the slightest idea she would have 
cause to break. 


251 


Two days after the receipt of the telegram Miss Flax- 
ham, with her numerous boxes and trunks, arrived at 
^‘Glymout.^’ 

It was the first time Dorothy had seen her since her 
marriage to Mr. Sinclair, and a stranger witnessing the 
meeting between the two would surely have thought it 
was the meeting of mother and daughter long sepa- 
rated. 

Mr. Sinclair turned his face to the wall with a hope- 
less sigh when he saw again the corkscrew curls that 
had been such a source of annoyance to him during his 
illness of the past winter, but he remembered the wo- 
man’s kindness to Marguerite and kept silence. 

Dorothy was in despair when she learned that Mr. 
Sinclair was slowly but surely failing, and he still 
persisted in waiting until Mr. Deswald returned from 
abroad to make his will. What if he should die in- 
^ testate? All her sacrifices would go for nought and 
she would be penniless. To what extent her sacrifices 
went no one else on earth knew, unless it was, perhaps 
— ah, well, we will let the future show. 

After Miss Flaxham’s arrival she was practically re- 
lieved from the sick room, though she spent a great 
deal of her time reading to Mr. Sinclair, who never 
tired of hearing her voice or looking into her glowing 
face, and each day he prayed more earnestly for Mr. 
Deswald’s rtdurn, that he might make all things safe 
for the woman he adored, but since that mysterious 
cablegram nothing had been heard from the lawyer, 
and all attempts to do so had proved futile. 

Society now began to claim some attention from the 
charming young wife of the millionaire, and Mr. Sin- 
clair would not listen to her protestations that she 
had rather be at home with him, but insisted that she 
accept the invitations that poured in upon her and 
make the most of her glorious oportunities. At last 
Dorothy consented to go out if Miss Flaxham would 
remain in constant attendance upon Mr. Sinclair until 
her return, and, as every former lady of ^^Glymont” 
had done in her time, Dorothy became the reigning 
belle of Washington. Noted persons attended balls. 


252 


receptions, and dinners in order to become acquainted 
with her, and, far from the success she had achieved 
as Dorothy Merlebank, society was now at her feet. 
She was quite as much at home at the legations and 
foreign embassies as in the drawing-room of her hum- 
blest friend. At many of the places where she was 
ever a welcome guest, Doroth}^ learned that they were 
great lovers of art, and in the homes of these persons 
she found her chief delight. The sight of a new por- 
trait or landscape always brought to memory the 
happy days she had spent with Carl, and she would 
linger over them until the tears filled her eyes. She 
could not get over the idea that he was lying at the 
bottom of the lake, and that midnight vision had been 
only a ghost to haunt her in her misery. Oh, Heaven, 
if only she had been a good, faithful-hearted woman! 
How happy she might have been! 

She had dined with Mrs. Van Kelpen one evening, 
and, leaving the gentlemen over their wine, her hostess 
led the way to a pretty little salon where she had hung 
a picture, recently purchased at an art store in Kew 
York. The painting was not a large one, but was 
certainly the work of a master hand. It was a night 
scene. In the distance the soft moonlight fell upon a 
sheet of water, shining cold and still under the cloud- 
less sky, while a woman gazed helplessly at the still 
surface, and lifted her hands appealingly to Heaven. 
A rickety cabin occupied the foreground, and the 
broken door hung open on one hinge. A fire was burn- 
ing on the hearth, before which two men sat. One of 
them appeared to be speaking, and his handsome, 
though dissipated, face wore an expression which only 
sorrow could have brought there — deep, heart felt sor- 
row. The other man, though perhaps but a few yeai*s 
younger than the speaker, possessed a handsome, boy 
ish face, with none of the marks of dissipation in its 
classic curves. He was staring into the speak(‘r’s fai e 
with a look of dull apprehension and startled in 
credulity, and on a table between them lay an open 
paper which Dorothy could have sworn she had seen 
before. A death-like pallor came over her face as her 


253 


eyes sought the title of the painting, and she saw ^^The 
Death of Hope,’^ and beneath it, in the delicate tracery 
of a handwriting she knew so well — 

“The night has a thousand eyes, 

The day but one; 

Yet the light of a whole world dies 
With the dying sun. 

“The mind has a thousand eyes, 

The heart but one; 

Yet the light of a Avhole life dies 
When love is done.” 

No need to go further; she knew the work was from 
CarPs hands, yet, as a loadstone draws the needle, her 
eyes were drawn to the left-hand corner of the canvas, 
and she saw- the single word ^^Wilmerding/’ 

Her hostess never could imagine why it was that 
Mrs. Sinclair fainted in the salon that night, and Mr. 
Sinclair was dumfounded when she crept into his 
room next morning, more dead than alive, and begged 
for permission to have the lake dragged, because she 
had a horrid dream that somebody had been drowned 
there. 

For three whole days the lake was dragged, but, just 
as every one predicted, nothing was found, and Dor- 
othy g^rew cheerful once more when she realized that 
Carl was still alive and she might be happy with him 
yet. Mr. Sinclair’s money grew to be only a secondary 
consideration with her after that. How glad she felt 
that Carl wms still alive! 


CHAPTER XXX. 


A NEW LOVER IN THE FIELD. 

ME. SINCLAIE was better under Miss Flaxliam’s 
untiring care, and Dorothy plunged into the mad whirl 
of society as only a gay and heartless creature can, 
determined to drink the cup of happiness to the very 
dregs and get out of life all the pleasure she could, for 
she felt instinctively that the opportunity would not 
last always, and she did not refuse a single invitation. 

“Eujoy the sunshine while you may; 

Too soon the chance will pass away,” 

she would quote to Miss Flaxham whenever she plead- 
ed with her to rest “just one day.’’ 

Mrs. Van Kelpen had issued invitations to a mas- 
querade ball, to be given on the fifth of December. 
She and Dorothv had become great friends, and with 
the invitation she wrote: 

“Dear Mrs. Sinclair: Whatever you do, leave your 
nerves out of the question that night. I have a charm- 
ing surprise in store for you, and I can not have my 
plans upset by another fainting scene. I have not yet 
recovered from the shock I experienced Monday night. 
I really believe my new painting was responsible for 
your sudden illness. Come over and tell me all about 
it. Have you had an affahx d^amour with the gifted 
artist, or were you the woman beside the lake? I am 
sure it is one or the other, and I shall not rest until I 
know all. Lovingly your friend, 

“Agnes Van Kelpen.” 

Dorothy’s heart almost stood still in her breast when 
she read the note. What did Mrs. Van Kelpen mean 


255 


by the surprise she had in store for her? Was it pos 
sible that she had found out her secret and invited 
Carl to the masquerade ball? He was still alive; she 
was now certain of that; but Dorothy would rather 
die than meet him face to face after she learned that 
her story was known by him. She was so certain that 
fatal paper had been destroj^ed. Did she not with her 
own hands tear it to shreds and toss it in the grate. 
She remembered now that Jack Dumbarton had come 
to ^^Glymont” the very day she destroyed it, and it was 
in the grate in his room she had thrown the fragments. 
That accounted for all. No, she could not attend the 
masquerade ball; she could not look into CarPs tender 
blue eyes and live, knowing as she did that he could 
read her shalloAV heart as an open book before him. 
Oh, would to God she had been a better woman! 

^^My dear Mrs. Van Kelpen,’’ she wrote. ^Gt is with 
extreme regret that I am forced to decline your kind 
invitation to a masquerade ball on Dec. 5, but I am 
sure I shall not be able to attend. I shall see you soon 
and explain all. I wish you much success. In the 
meantime believe me, your sincere friend, 

^‘Dorothy Sinclair.’’ 

This note was dispa+ched by a private messenger, 
and in less than an hour after its receipt Mrs. Van 
Kelpen’s carriage drew up under the port cochere at 
^^Glymont,” and the little lady herself alighted. 

Peter took her card up to Mrs. Sinclair’s boudoir and 
returned to say that his mistress would receive her 
there. 

^^Oh, you naughty girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Van Kelpen, 
rushing up to the couch upon which Dorothy reclined, 
and impulsively throwing her arms around the little 
fraud. ^^How could you be so cruel as to decline an in- 
vitation to a ball, arranged for your especial delight?” 

“Was I, indeed, so naughty?” asked Dorothy sweet- 
ly, returning her embrace. 

“Yes, you were, dear, and I’m sure you must have 
some particular reason for doing so. Now, tell me 


wliat it is and I shall have the objection removed at 
once.” 

Dorothy smiled at her friend’s persistence. 

fear you are fanciful, my dear. However, I did 
have a reason for declining your invitation.” 

‘^Do tell me at once what it is,” pleaded Mrs. Van 
Kelpen. 

^^Well,” replied Dorothy, shall do so, but I am sure 
you will think me a very foolish creature. Do you be- 
lieve in dreams? No? Well, I do, and last night I 
dreamed that I was again standing in your pretty 
salon and one of the men in the painting you had just 
hung when I was there before, The Death of Hope,’ 
I believe it is called, seemed to assume bodily propor- 
tions, step from the frame and stand before me, full 
six feet in height — ” 

Which one?” interrupted Mrs. Van Kelpen. 

^The fair-haired one,” replied Dorothy, ‘^and when I 
tried to scream he caught me in his arms and held me 
fast, and as he did so I seemed to hear a strange, roar- 
ing sound, like the rushing of waters, and above it all 
a commanding voice cried, loud and distinct, this is 
YOUR FATE, and then, Mrs. Van Kelpen, the worst of 
all came. The waters seemed to rush over me, blinding 
me for a time, and when I could again see, there was 
only a desolate plain, and out on the storm-swept sands 
I saw the body, cold and dead, of a woman, which I 
knew to be my own.” 

^^Oh, Mrs. Sinclair, this is horrible,” cried Mrs. Van 
Kelpen, with tears streaming down her face. ^T^ou 
surely must have been ill to have such horrible, hor- 
rible dreams.” 

^^No, I was not ill,” replied Dorothy; really think 
it was a waking dream, a vision after all, for I started 
up, wide awake, when it was over. After that can you 
blame me for declining your invitation?” 

^^Certainly not, my dear, and I shall have that horrid 
picture taken down and placed in the garret the min- 
ute I reach home.” 

^^Oh, I hope you will not do that,” said Dorothy; ^dt is 
such a pretty painting and you can not afford to rob 


257 


your salon of its ornaments for the sake of my foolish 
dreams/’ 

^^But my masquerade ball,” urged Mrs. Van Kelpen. 
have invited some one there to meet you, especially 
for this purpose, and he will be dreadfully disappointed 
if you are not there.” 

‘^Are you sure he is not my fate?” questioned Dor- 
othy laughingly. 

‘‘Absolutely sure, my dear. He is in no way con- 
nected with this wonderful picture. In fact, he only ar- 
rived in Washington two weeks ago, is young, hand- 
some, and as rich as Croesus.” 

“What a delightful number of good qualities,” said 
Dorothy. “One rarely finds a man who possesses so 
many desirable attractions.” 

“That is true,” mused Mrs. Van Kelpen, “and if you 
will pardon me, Mrs. Sinclair, for referring to so deli- 
cate a subject, I am quite sure you will not have your 
old husband very long, and while one feels a delicacy 
in speculating upon another’s death, we all know that 
these things are inevitable, and sensible people would 
not expect you to grieve very long over a man fifty 
years your senior. For my part I am in favor of your 
meeting this handsome young gold-king, and once he 
has seen your pretty face I shall not trouble for the 
future. You understand, dear, it is only taking time by 
the forelock, so to speak.” 

“Ah, Mrs. Van Kelpen, you are building very beauti- 
ful castles for my habitation,” replied Dorothy, “but I 
assure you Mr. Sinclair is quite as apt to live as I am. 
The climate here does not suit him and he suffers a 
great deal from the cold. ‘Glymont’ is too near the 
river, I think; but, aside from these little inconveni- 
ences, minor considerations, to my mind, he has not an 
alarming symptom.” 

Had Agnes Van Kelpen been other than a heartless 
woman she could never have found Dorothy so con- 
genial, and that she was equally as worldly and devoid 
of principle as Dorothy had proved herself to be was 
shown in her reply to the last remark made by the 
woman James Sinclair loved and trusted. 


258 


^^Triist to nature, my dear. She is as inexorable as 
the laws of the Medes and Persians, and it was never 
a part of her plan to unite May and December, as fool- 
ish human beings are sometimes wont to believe. Of 
course no one blames you for marrying a man of Mr. 
Sinclair’s means and position though he were as old as 
Methuselah, but that is not saying you must tie your- 
self down to worship him, now and forever. Come out 
into the world and enjoy it. There! the clock is strik- 
ing twelve; really I must be going. I shall expect you 
to be my Sea-nymph Tuesday night. Do not disappoint 
me. Look out for Kobespierre at the ball. I promise 
the fair-haired man shall not step from the picture, 
unless he chooses to descend the garret stairs.” 

She broke into a ripple of merry laughter, and, kiss- 
ing Dorothy good-bye, darted from the room, calling 
back as she reached the steps : 

^^Don’t be shocked at my freedom in talking to you, 
Mrs. Sinclair,” and Dorothy, dancing out of the room, 
responded gaily : 

^^Oh, no, Mrs. Van Kelpen, not in the least. I shall 
come without fail.” 

As the outer door closed behind her visitor, Dorothy 
glided into Mr. Sinclair’s room and dropped into a 
chair near the bedside, her face aglow with happy an- 
ticipation, and the old man, who noticed every change 
in her beloved face, took her fair white hand in his and 
asked: 

^^What is it, my love, that brings such glad smiles 
to your face?” 

And Dorothy told him all about the masquerade ball, 
which was to be such a brilliant affair, omitting, of 
course, the handsome young stranger whom she was in- 
vited to meet. 

^^Ah, my i)recious wife, may you always be as happy 
as you are now,” said the old man, stroking gently the 
fluffy brown curls that fell over her white brow. 

‘‘‘There is only one drawback to my perfect happi- 
ness,” replied Dorothy, “and that is the knowledge of 
my husband’s failing health.” 

“Never mind, my pet, I shall leave you well provided 


259 


for, and some day, when you have ceased to miss me, 
you will find a mate for your young heart and be hap- 
pier than I can ever make you.^^ 

^'llush, I wull not listen to such idle talk,^’ said Dor- 
othy, laying her hand over his lips; ‘^you are to live a 
hundred years yet/^ 

‘^Not quite so long, dearie. Your father told me this 
morning that I could not hope to last more than a few 
weeks.’’ 

^‘Papa is talking nonsense,” said Dorothy impa- 
tiently, ‘^and I shall insist upon having another physi- 
cian if he comes around with his dismal croakings any 
more. You are going to get w^ell and stand with me to 
receive my guests at our grand Christmas ball, isn’t 
he. Miss Flaxham?” 

“I ho])e so, Mrs. Sinclair,” replied the nurse, as she 
measured half a glass of sherry, w^hich Mr. Sinclair 
SI ill insisted upon having, though Dr. Merlebank in- 
sisted that it was not the best thing for him. Perhaps 
the Doctor knew that it is the thing one denies an in- 
valid that he will ever crave. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen’s residence was a blaze of light 
from cellar to garret when the evening of the masquer- 
ade ball arrived, and by eight o’clock her parlors were 
thronged with fairy princesses, goddesses of night, 
morning stars, and the dozens of other impossibilities 
that one expects at a masquerade ball. Kobespierre, 
in his w^arlike costume of the Kevolutionary period, 
w^as there, impatiently aw^aiting the arrival of the Sea- 
nymph with whom he w^as to open the ball. 

Slie came at last, a fioating cloud of pale green silk, 
covered with a mist like the ocean’s foam, flashes of 
light emitting from the folds of her dress, like the 
sparkle of the spray. Through the Psyche coil of her 
hair a diamond-incrusted dagger wms thrust with care- 
less grace, and a thousand rays of light flashed from 
her jeweled necklace and bracelets. All eyes were 
turned upon the radiant vision as she glided like a 
sprite dowm the full length of the room to where Mrs. 
Van Kelpen stood receiving her guests. 

never saw such a vision of loveliness,” whispered 


260 


Mrs. Van Kelpen, as she greeted the Sea-nymph. ^^Yonr 
costume is divine, and Eobespierre is consumed with 
impatience. I fancy he will be lifting that mask to 
get a peep at your face long before midnight.’^ 

As she ceased sj)eaking the great French fiend step- 
ped closer to the raised dias upon which she stood. 

^‘May I claim the hand of the beautiful Sea-nymph 
for the opening waltz he asked, and, instead of re- 
plying, Dorothy laid her hand on his arm, to be whirled 
away the next moment to the sweet strains of the or- 
chestra in one of Beethoven’s sweetest, most dreamy 
waltzes. 

A thrill, so intense as to be almost a pain, shot 
through her heart as the great, muscular arm encircled 
her w^aist, and above the swell of the orchestra and the 
sound of dancing feet Dorothy could have sworn she 
heard a voice saying ^^this is your fate.” 

Eobespierre felt the hand on his arm tremble, and 
he asked : 

^^Is the fair Sea-nymph afraid so near the terror of 
France?” 

For a moment Dorothy found it hard to command 
her voice. When she did at length, she replied: 

^‘Oh, no; the days of Eevolntion are over, and even 
were they not, Eobespierre could not harm the Sea- 
nymph, who would fly to her protecting waves for 
shelter.” 

He bent lower over the jewel-crowned head. 

^Won have nothing to fear from me, my bonny one. 
Eobespierre of the past was the lover of war, strife and 
dissension. Eobespierre of the present finds his delight 
in loving the fair.” 

What was there in the sound of his voice that caused 
her to look up into his masked face with such a look of 
terror and apprehension. 

^There is incredulity in your stare, fair nymph of the 
sea, but when masks are dropped at stroke of twelve 
your look for blood-stained hands will be unrewarded. 
Your graceful form is encircled by the arms of the de- 
fender, not the persecutor of innocence, and instead 


2(>1 


of feeling afraid Idl venture that you will one day fly 
to him for love and protection/^ 

Dorothy shivered in every nerve. What could his 
language mean? She felt as though she must get away 
from the stare of those wicked eyes or die. Yet why 
should his eyes appear wicked to her. As he had said, 
Eobespierre, the terror of France, was dead, why 
should she fear? Had she made a mistake in coming 
here, or was the vision she had defied but a dream, 
which meant nothing, after all? In spite of her reason- 
ings and Mrs. Van Kelpen’s patronizing smiles she 
could not get away from the sound of the rushing 
waters. 

Cinderella, in the arms of Prince Charming, fioated 
past her with a merry burst of laughter that almost 
set her wild. What had she to do with Cinderella or 
her Prince? Why did they all persist in mocking her? 
Did the whole world know her story, or was it only her 
guilty heart that fancied derision in every voice, mock- 
ery in every laugh? 

She could scarcely drag her feet through the waltz, 
but the music ceased at last and she dropped into a 
seat, weak and exhausted. Eobespierre continued to 
talk, but she listened as one in a dream. Mrs. Van 
Kelpen’s ball had begun like a nightmare to her. 

Great Heaven — there was Cinderella’s laugh again! 
How could she be so happy when her Prince Charming 
was an old gray-haired man? Dorothy herself had seen 
his gray beard when the wind blew his mask ever so 
little to one side. But Cinderella was happy. Her 
fairy god-mother had been lavish in her favors, and, in 
spite of his years. Prince Charming was the most gal- 
lant of lovers. 

The Sea-nymph could have cried aloud for very joy 
when Lord Chesterfield claimed her hand for the next 
quadrille, and as she tripped away to the sound of the 
music, away from Eobespierre’s searching eyes, she felt 
as if she were treading on air. 

^This is divine, fair one,” said Lord Chesterfield; 
could dance forever with such a partner.” 

‘Then do me the favor to claim every single dance," 


2(>2 


said the Sea-nymph, holding out her green-and-gold 
tablets for him to write his name. 

“Thank yon,’’ she said, as she saw the last vacant 
place filled and Robespierre crowded out for the even- 
ing, just as he was coming up to beg another waltz. 

“It is too bad,” she said, with a triumphant smile, 
“but they are every one taken.” 

And what should Robespierre do but ask the hand 
of Cinderella for at least half a dozen dances, a fact 
which rather pleased than annoyed Prince Charming. 
He felt proud that his sweetheart should claim the 
most distinguished attention the evening afforded. 

There were all manner of conjectures as to who this 
beautiful Cinderella, with her raven tresses and fairy 
garments, could be, but no one seemed anxious to iden- 
tify the Prince. He claimed a single dance from the 
Sea-nymph and returned to his old love. 

The last strains of Manola, that sweetest and dream- 
iest of waltzes, were dying away when the clock struck 
twelve, and the general unmasking began. Dorothy 
was dumfounded vdien she saw Lord Chesterfield sud- 
denly develop into Stanley Von Floville. King Arthur, 
who was no less a person than Dr. Merlebank, was in 
turn dumfoiimled to see the mask in turn drop from 
Prince Charming’s face to reveal old Mr. Yalwin, and 
Cinderella step forth as Daisy Stafford. Robespierre 
had suddenly vanished, and in his stead stood a man, 
tall, handsome, dignified, erect, a perfect Apollo in his 
manly strength. The Sea-nymph had lost all her fear 
of him and smiled sweetly over the compliments he 
paid her as Mrs. Sinclair, when Mrs. Van Kelpen intro- 
duced them, and Reginald Duchene was much amused 
that he had made such a formidable Robespierre as to 
cause the Sea-nymph to tremble at the sound of his 
voice. Surprises were the order of the evening, and 
there were none greater than whenKing Cophetau and 
the Beggar Maid stood revealed as Mr. Deswald and 
Elia Chelini Sinclair. Dr. Merlebank stared first at 
them and then at Mr. Valwin and Daisy Stafford. 
What did the presence of these four persons mean? 
Had he been betrayed by Dr. Garrison? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


NEW TANGLES IN THE SKEIN. 

WHEN Dr. MerTebank saw that it Avas really Mr. V^al- 
win and Daisj^ Stafford, he felt certain that Dr. Garri- 
son had planned this as a re\^enge for the years of per- 
secution he had snff'ered at his hands, and he was al- 
most in despair. Daisy was apparently as well as any 
person there, and there was not one of the guests but 
would swear to her sanity. He could not imagine hoAV 
Mr. Valwiii had managed to get her there. It would 
take fully a day to reach W ashington from the little 
town up in the NetA" Hampshire hills, and had there 
been anything like an abduction Dr. Garrison would 
surely have telegraphed to liini at once. 

He found himself escorting some lady to supper, and, 
summoning all the animation he possibly could, he ad- 
dressed a feAV remarks to her, but the lady only stared 
at him instead of replying, and she afterward charged 
Mrs. Van Kelpen with putting her off on an escort who 
had been taking too much wine. 

Dorothy stared helplessly at her father. She, too, 
went through tlie meal like one stupefied, and all of 
Reginald Duchene’sAvitty remarks and brilliant speech- 
es could not call a smile to her lips. A criminal on 
the galloAvs could not be more horrified at the sight of 
the black cap than these; tAA^o, father and daughter, 
were at the sight of the persons they believed they had 
so successfully outwitted. Dorothy knew quite well 
that Elia Chelini Sinclair had not crossed the ocean 
for nothing, and she knew that her presence at Mrs. 
Van Kelpen’s Avith Herbert Deswald meant something 
more than the mere enjoyment of the ball. To her 
father the shock was worse still. Added to the horror 


of being confronted by the lawyer and Mr. Sinclair's 
wife, Mr. Yalwin and Daisy Stafford, he had before 
him the malicious, fiendish face of Baron Von Floville. 

The horrible night drew to a close at last, and as Dr. 
Merlebank and his daughter drove back to ^‘Glymont^’ 
through the roesate light of dawn they felt like prison- 
ers upon the dock, Avaiting for the sentence of doom to 
fall. The first thing that met the Doctor’s eye when 
he entered the hall was a yellow envelope, which he 
knew to contain a telegram, lying in the hall rack. It 
proved to be from Dr. Garrison and ran as follows: 

‘^Daisy escaped yesterday morning. Diligent search 
unavailing. Come at once.” 

It was quite a relief to know that Garrison had not 
betrayed him, but he strongly reproached himself for 
having called Miss Flaxham away from the ‘^Sanitar- 
ium,” Avhen her services there Avere so essential to suc- 
cess. Another thing Avhich puzzled the Doctor was 
that neither Mr. Yalwin nor Daisy had recognized him, 
-and moreover he knew the costume Daisy wore was 
no hurriedly made one. There was not a finer or more 
tasteful dress in Mrs. Yan Kelpen’s parlors. This 
proA^ed that her presence Avas a premeditated affair, 
either by Mr. Yahvin or some person unknoAvn to him 
(the Doctor). What if the Avhole plot had been dis- 
covered, and he should be sent to prison, perhaps for 
life? Instead of falling asleep when he crept into bed 
at dawn of day, the gifted physician and society favor- 
ite lay aAvake, trying to devise some plan by aa hich he 
could escape the country and justice. 

^^Confound it all,” he muttered, ^fif a fellow Avere by 
himself it would be comparatively easy to get aAvay, 
but who can do anything with so many darned Avomen 
trotting after them?” 

Certainly there was no danger of Mrs. Sinclair ^^trot- 
ting after him,” and it was not probable that a trained 
nurse would give up a good position to follow him. 
To whom did his remarks point? There were very 
few things that could drive sleep from Dorothy’s eyes, 
however much she might fear detection, and as soon as 


she could drive from her mind the magnetic influence 
Reginald Duchene exercised over her heart, she was 
removed from the world in peaceful slumber. Mr. 
Valwin and Daisy Stafford had no power to frighten 
her, because she had never seen either of them before; 
of Baron Floville she was not in the least dread — she 
understood him. Her only fear arose from the pres- 
ence of Mr. Deswald and Elia Chelini. 

Father and daughter met at a rather late breakfast 
that morning, and Dr. Merlebank announced his inten- 
tion of going away for a few days, though he would 
tell no one his destination. 

The morning paper gave a brilliant account of Mrs. 
Van Kelpen’s masquerade ball, dwelling at length 
upon the marvelous beauty and wonderful costume 
of the Sea-nymph who completely captured Robespierre,, 
the terror of France. King Arthur received particu- 
lar mention, and reference was made in some way to 
every guest, except Cinderella and Prince Charming, 
King Cophetau and the Beggar Maid. Of these not a 
single word was said. Dr. Merlebank could not under- 
stand it. Had he suff'ered some optical illusion or 
were these persons really there? At any rate, Daisy 
Stafford had escaped from the ^‘Sanitarium. There was 
no mistake about that. He still had the telegram in 
his pocket, and Dr. Garrison had requested him to 
come at once. 

Dorothy ordered her victoria to drive the Doctor 
to the depot, and smiled sweetly when she told Francis, 
the coachman, she would not need his services; Black 
Prince was perfectly gentle, and she could manage 
him without the slightest trouble. 

Dr. Merlebank held a private consultation with Miss 
Flaxham before his departure, and Dorothy was not a 
little surprised when he asked to be driven to the es- 
tablishment of one of the leading wine merchants in 
Washington before going to the station. As a result 
of this visit a case of sherr^^, the brand a well-known 
one at ^‘Glymont,” was sent over to Miss Flaxham that 
afternoon. Mr. Sinclair insisted upon having sherry, 
and the Doctor was not certain what time he would 


266 


return, though, to he sure, the well-stocked cellar of 
‘^Glymont’^ coutaiiied enough of his choice beverage to 
last the invalid for years. It was quite a relief to 
Dorothy when she saw the train qjull out with her 
father safely aboard. For some unaccountable reason 
she never felt quite easy when he was near. The ob- 
ject of his journey was shrouded in mystery to her, but 
so long as he was awa}' from ^^Olymont’’ it made little 
difference where lie went. 

That Miss Flaxham was fully cognizant of his move- 
ments Dorothy had not a doubt. It was remarkable 
that she should have been chosen by both Dr. Merle- 
bank and his daughter as a confidante. 

Mrs. Sinclair let the reins hang loosely in her hands, 
and Black Prince chose his own gait returning to 
^KllymonP’ that day. He was pacing leisurely down 
Connecticut avenue, when a familiar voice sounded in 
Dorothy’s ear, and drawing rein she saw Baron Von 
Floville crossing the street. Inviting him to a seat 
beside her, she gave the horse a light cut with the 
whip, and they were soon leaving the city in the dis- 
tance and bowling along over the country road in the 
direction of ^^Glymont.” 

hope you are feeling quite well after last night’s 
dissipation,” said the Baron by way of opening the 
( onversation he desired. 

^^Oh, yes, quite well, though a little sleepy,” replied 
Dorothy. ^‘Papa was suddenly and mysteriously 
called away, and I had to be up earlv to drive him to 
the depot.” 

“So he is off again,” said the Baron. “That is rather 
odd, though decidedly favorable for us. I suppose you 
recognized our friend, Mr. Deswald, and his companion 
last night?” 

“Yes,” replied Dorothy, “I recognized them, and it 
almost froze the blood in my veins. What can his 
unheralded presence mean to us?” 

“Nothing very serious,” said the Baron, laughingly; 
“I am rather of the opinion that it was a clever ruse, 
gotten up by IMrs. Van ^ Kelpen to deceive us 
all. Deswald is not to be found in Washington, for I 


2()7 


have searched the city over for him; I telegraphed It) 
New York for iiiformation if his name was among the 
list of passengers arrived on any boat this week, and 
there has been no such person among the passengers 
of any vessel.’’ 

‘^How in the world could Mrs. Van Kelpeu know 
that Herbert Deswald and Elia Chelini had anything 
to do with us?” questioned Dorothy. 

‘That I can not tell,” replied the Baron. “She may 
simply have gleaned the names from the newspa- 
pers ” 

“But their faces?” interrupted Dorothy. 

“Oh, that could easily have been fixed up by some 
professional, who also got their description from the 
papers, and Mrs. Van Kelpen, thinking it would be a 
capital joke to frighten us all out of our wits, hit upon 
this novel idea of doing so. One can never tell what 
Mrs. Van Kelpen Avill do. She is the most original per- 
son I ever saw.” 

“If I was certain that she would stoop to such a 
vulgar joke I should say she was a fool,” said Dorothy, 
indignantly, “and I’d cut her acquaintance at once.” 

“You could not afford to do that, Mrs. Sinclair. A 
time will come when you will find Mrs. Van Kelpen a 
very useful person. Her utter disregard for public 
opinion makes it possible to use her friendship to great 
advantage.” 

“You talk in riddles, Baron.” 

“They will be plain by and by, my dear; in the mean- 
time I advise you to cultivate Mrs. Van Kelpen as 
much as possible. We are on the eve of a climax, and 
fearless friends will not come amiss.” 

Dorothy looked up in terror. 

“I do not understand,” she said, tremulously. 

“It would be rather difficult for any one to under- 
stand at present,” replied the Baron; “but it is my 
opinion that Deswald' has learned something of our 
plans. By what means I am unable to say, but it is 
evident that he knows more than we intended any 
person to know, find means to make use of his knowl- 


268 


edge upon the very first opportunity that presents 
itself/^ 

Dorothy regretted exceedingly that she had ever lent 
herself to such a plot; but she reflected that she had 
no power to avoid such a step. She was a minor, 
under her father^s authority and powerless to assert 
her will at the time he had first brought her to ^^Gly- 
mont.’^ However, it was too late to turn back now, 
and she determined to face her fate bravely and let 
the future take care of itself. 

^‘We will not borrow trouble, Baron Von Floville,’^ 
she said, gaily; ‘^one never gains anything by crossing 
bridges before they are reached, and for my part I mean 
to make the best of a bad bargain, and as long as one 
has not stolen anything or committed murder there 
is not much fear of imprisonment.’’ 

^^There are other crimes than murder or embezzle- 
ment punishable by imprisonment, my dear,” said the 
Baron. 

“Oh, well,” said Dorothy, nervously, “so long as one 
has not committed them there is not any danger, and, 
after all, ‘catching precedes hanging.’ ” 

“Do not be too sanguine, my dear; people have been 
eaught before to-day,” said the Baron, and Dorothy, 
smiling up into his face, replied: 

“I fear you are despondent, Baron. Remember, a 
brave general never gives up the fight until he is con- 
quered, and we are not conquered by any means.” 

The Baron was not so certain. 

Mr. Sinclair was sitting at the window when they 
reached “Glymont,” and his face lighted up with pleas- 
ure when he saw his young wife toss the reins to Fran- 
cis and spring lightly from the victoria, followed by his 
friend, Baron Von Floville. It was remarkable how 
the Baron always found himself welcome at any place 
be chanced to go. He was shown at once to the old 
man’s room, and once there Mr. Sinclair would not 
listen to his refusal to remain to luncheon, and in spite 
i)f Miss Flaxham’s entreaties and protestations that 
lie was not strong enough to risk the danger, the genial 


269 


host insisted upon lunching with the family in the 
dining-room. 

They were barely seated at the table when Peter 
announced — 

^^Mr. Keginald Duchene.’’ 

Dorothy flushed to the roots of her hair. She had 
given him permission to call, but never for a moment 
had an idea that he would come so soon. 

The Baron smiled under his silken mustache at her 
visible show of confusion. Her fascination of the pre- 
vious night had not escaped his lynx-like eyes. 

Mr. Duchene made a very formal call, and as he was 
taking his departure he held Dorothy’s dimpled hand 
for a moment and said: 

‘^As a Sea-nymph, Mrs. Sinclair, I found you most 
charming, but as a hostess I And you simply irresisti- 
ble. May I call again soon?” 

‘^Certainly you may,” replied Dorothy, sweetly, “as 
soon as you like.” 

Baron Von Floville looked on suspiciously. He felt 
as certain that Reginald Duchene was not what he 
represented himself to be as he did of his own ex- 
istence, but Dorothy flashed up indignantly when he 
conflded his fears to her, and told him that because he 
was a fraud he was always trying to prove other peo- 
ple as such. After that the Baron said no more, and 
Dorothy drifted blindly on to her fate. Reginald Du- 
chene became a daily visitor at “Glymont” and Mrs. 
Van Kelpen took an opportune moment to say to 
Dorothy : 

“I never saw any one so completely fascinated, my 
dear. Now, don’t be foolish when he takes it into his 
head to speak to you, but take into consideration that 
you will be a widow in a few months at best, and don’t 
drive the dear fellow awmy.” 

Dorothy blushed furiously, and Mrs. Van Kelpen 
continued : 

“Half the girls in our set are wild over him, but I 
assure you he has neither care nor eyes for any one 
but yourself. Every time he sees you he declares you 
are more charming.” 



270 


As she ceased speaking Mr. Sinclair came slowly 
into the drawing-room. He did not know his wife had 
a caller. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen was on her feet in a minute. 

am so delighted to see you better, Mr. Sinclair,’^ 
she said, shaking his hand warmly. have just been 
chiding your sweet wife for remaining at home so 
closely, when we need her so much in society, but she 
insists that she finds her pleasure in remaining with 
you. I am sure there are not many wives who are so 
devoted to their husbands.” 

^^Perhaps there are not many husbands who are so 
devoted to their wives,” chimed in Dorothy, with a gra- 
cious smile to the old man, who had seated himself be- 
side her. Certainly there was no one on earth who 
could have played the hypocrite with so much success. 

When Dr. Merlebank reached the “Home Sanitar- 
ium” he learned that Miss Stockton had been called 
away by the illness of Mrs. Valwin, who, it appeared, 
was in some way slightly connected with her. Mr. Val- 
win had come to Belton to accompany her on the jour- 
ney to his home, which was somewhere in the northern 
section of New York. Daisy had been much distressed 
upon learning of Miss Stockton’s departure and had 
wandered down to the lake early in the morning, and 
when she did not return at the usual hour for luncheon 
a servant was sent to look for her, who returned after 
taking a search through the grounds, to say that she 
was nowhere to be found. 

Of her appearance in Washington with Mr. Valwin 
we are already aware, and as it did not appear reason- 
able that Mr. Valwin would leave a sick wife and travel 
several hundred miles to attend a masquerade ball. Dr. 
Garrison was of the opinion that Daisy had been ab- 
ducted. Mrs. Stafford was almost wild over the dis- 
appearance of her daughter, and Mr. Hilburn wrung 
his hands in agony, crying continually that Daisy was 
on the burning boat and would be lost if he did not g^ 
to her at once. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


MRS. SINCLAIR'S INSANE RIVAL. 

WHEN Mr. Deswald and Elia Chelini left Mrs. Van 
Kelpen’s residence they disappeared from society as 
completely as if they had returned to the fair Italian 
city on the shores of the blue Mediterranean, and 
though Mr. Valwin and Daisy Stafford always man- 
aged to receive any invitation addressed to them at the 
‘^‘Arlington,” the clerk of that hotel declared there was 
no such names as Valwin- or Stafford on the register, 
and no persons in the? hotel, to his knowledge, answer- 
ing the descrip/* jn given of them. They became quite 
a mystery, and as a mystery is usually surrounded with 
interest, these persons found themselves the center of 
attraction, and the most popular couple in “upper four 
hundred’’ of the National Capital’s select set. 

Mr. Valwin had improved wonderfully since we knew 
him as an illiterate old man at the “Home Sanitarium.” 
The most distinguished man in society could not criti- 
cise his language, his dress was faultless, manners per- 
fect, his pocket-book apparently large, and, taken alto- 
gether, he was quite an addition to the “upper set,” 
and a favorite with all who had the good fortune to 
know him. He had, figuratively speaking, traveled the 
world over, was at home whether one talked of the 
African colonies or Her Majesty’s domain. He could 
render an interesting account of a reindeer ride over 
Arctic snows, or picture the grandeur of a tropical 
^cene. In short, he knew everything, had shaken hands 
Mth the leading rulers of Europe, and dined with the 
Sultan of Turkey. The question was not where he had 
been, but where he had not been, and he soon became 
known as the “Learned Man” of Washington. He had 


2V2 


the entree to the best houses in the city, and where he 
went Daisy Stafford was also to be found. Why they 
should hide themselves away from the world during 
the day became a general topic of discussion, but no- 
body, who was anybody at all, would have thought for 
a moment of having an entertainment and not inviting 
Mr. Valwin and his beautiful protege. 

Excepting Mrs. Sinclair she was looked upon as the 
most beautiful woman in society, and people began to 
refer to them as ^^rival belles,’’ an appellation which 
filled Mrs. Sinclair with supreme disgust, causing her 
nose to assume a decidedly retrousse appearance when- 
ever any one chanced to mention her name in connec- 
tion with the beautiful Miss Stafford. She was in- 
debted to Miss Flaxham for the information that she 
had once heard of a Miss Stafford, whom she was sure 
they called Daisy (such a babyish name), being looked 
upon as insane, though Miss^.T^laxham could not recall 
what it was that had first led hex .parents to question 
her sanity, but the girl was really ins^'ue, and was for 
some months in confinement in a hospital somewhere 
in the North. Dorothy had not the remotest idea that 
the rumor she set going to this effect would prove the 
very turning point in Daisy Stafford’s life, and the in- 
strument of her own destruction. She first whispered 
the story to her bosom friend, Mrs. Van Kelpen, and 
had she called out an extra edition of the leading news- 
paper for the purpose the story could not have been 
told to better effect. Before the day was over every 
member of the particular circle in which the two 
women moved was aware of the fact that Daisy Staf- 
ford was an escaped lunatic. 

Those who had once raved over the sweet expression 
of her sea-blue eyes, now remembered that she did have 
a rather vacant stare, and others who had so often re- 
marked of her wonderful intelligence, now declared she 
had always appeared rather silly. Mrs. Sinclair be- 
came the bright, particular star, and she gloated over 
her trium.ph as a miser does his gold. 

Out of all the numbers who had sued for favor at the 
young girl’s hand, Keginald Duchene alone remained 


273 


the staunch friend of Daisy Stafford. This piqued Dor- 
othy more than the attentions of half a dozen other per- 
sons, lavished upon her rival, could have done, and the 
way she set about trying to outshine her was a source 
of amusement to those who were watching to see the 
interesting dratna played to the end. Mr. Valwin took 
it all good-naturedly. If Mrs. Sinclair could wear dia- 
monds he would see that Daisy could also. If Mrs. Sin- 
clair occupied a box at the theatre she was sure to find 
her rival opposite her. In short, life for the two women 
became a. game of cross-purposes, and no one could 
make the slightest guess where it would end, though 
the field for speculation w^as large. 

Keginald Duchene had hired a magnificent house in 
the most fashionable part of the gay capital, living 
there in princely grandeur with no one but his well- 
trained retinue of servants, and it was at this residence 
that the devotees of fashion were invited to what prom- 
ised to be the most interesting event of the season. 
There were to be a select number of guests, and each 
lady was expected to represent as nearly as possible 
in her costume some member of the fioral kingdom, 
and on the evening of the entertainment she was to 
send a houtonniere of the fiower she had chosen, to be 
dropped into a basket, from which the gentlemen were 
to draw, blind-folded, these favors. As the lady en- 
tered the parlors the gentleman wearing her corres- 
ponding fiower Avas to meet her, escort her to a seat, 
and become her knight for the rest of the evening. 
Upon no condition were they to express dissatisfaction 
at their indiAddual fates, and when all were present a 
A^ote was to be cast, by which the lady most success- 
fully costumed was to receive from the host a coronet 
of diamonds and be crowned Queen of the Floral King- 
dom. After the coronation a fairy ball would open, 
and dancing to the music of the Marine Band would be 
kept up until midnight, Avhen supper was to be served 
in a Avoodland bower, into AAdiich the spacious dining- 
rooms had been turned for the occasion. 

Dorothy v as in a perfect feA^er of excitement over 
the affair, ^he had no fear of being outshone by any 


274 


one except Daisy Stafford, and it would have been a 
source of satisfaction to her to hear that her rival was 
stricken down with some malignant disease. However, 
Fate is very perverse at times, and she chose this par- 
ticular time to set up her perversity against Dorothy 
Sinclair. In neither mind nor body did Daisy Stafford 
show the slightest sign of disorder. 

Dorothy puzzled her mind to the last moment to find 
some flower that she could represent, without trying 
her complexion, which had never been the best. Color 
after color was tried on to be thrown aside with dis- 
gust. Nothing would do for her but white, and at last 
a happy thought occurred to her. She would wear the 
national emblem of Keginald Duchene^s country. In 
that she could appear at her very best and at the same 
time it would be flattering to her host to know that she 
had chosen the flower beloved by all France. 

That there might be no confusion when the hour of 
coronation came, each lady was requested to send in 
her card, bearing the name of the flower she would rep- 
resent, at least one week before the entertainment, and, 
in case two had selected the same flower, the one send- 
ing her card in last was to be notified in ample time to 
prepare another costume. 

The evening came at last, evening of joy, evening of 
events, evening of woe! 

Dorothy was late, purposely. She wanted to be the 
last one to arrive, the one to create the greatest sensa- 
tion, the one to — win. 

A murmur of admiration ran through the assembly 
as she swept into the room, in a shimmering burst of 
glory, her gown a representation hardly to be surpass- 
ed, of a snow-white iris, whose petals were fringed with 
gold, and gleaming with tiny diamonds, sprinkled here 
and there to represent dew-drops on the flower. Surely 
she would bear off the coronet. Not one of the costly- 
dressed women present but felt she was a hopeless fail- 
ure before that superb creature. 

The fair, white iris paid her greeting to the host, al- 
lowed her eyes to rest for a moment on the select as- 
semblage, then drop with a contented smile to her 


275 


matchless self. So satisfied was she of her own sur- 
passing loveliness that she did not miss the face of her 
beautiful rival from the fiower-like throng until the 
low murmur of applause that greeted her entrance was 
swelled into a burst of admiration, and she turned to 
face the most beautiful creature her eyes had ever 
rested upon — Daisy Stafford, gowned in royal purple, 
her entire costume a great velvet-hearted pansy, decked 
with streaks of yellow and foliaged with green. A 
more perfect representation could not have been de- 
signed by the greatest artist that ever lived. Dorothy 
caught her breath with a little gasp of despair when 
she saw the regal figure glide to the raised dias upon 
which Reginald Duchene sat, extend to him her jeweled 
hand in greeting, turn, link her arm in that of old Mr. 
Valwin, who wore her hoiitonniere, and follow him to a 
seat among the dainty throng. 

So absorbed was she with her own thoughts, fears, 
hopes, and wild prayers to Fate for success, Dorothy 
did not notice that the single white iris whicli she had 
sent to be dropped into the basket was nestling close 
upon the breast of Reginald Duchene, but she felt a 
sort of savage triumph when he had welcomed the last 
guest and taken a seat beside her. At any rate, Daisy 
Stafford could not monopolize him for the evening as 
she had done upon so many previous occasions. 

That Daisy Stafford was perfectly happy with her 
venerable cavalier, the cold-blooded schemer had not 
a doubt, but, as a matter of course, her very happiness 
was attributed to her lack of mind, and the power of 
any ordinarily intelligent person to awaken extreme 
interest in an insane person. 

Ornaments or jewels played very little part in the 
costly dress of those present, each fair blossom trem- 
bling with the hope that she should bear off the glitter- 
ing coronet that was to be a blaze of glory to crown 
her head and stamp her for the most beautiful, as well 
as the most successful woman of Reginald Duchene’s 
acquaintance. Only one-half an hour remained ere the 
coronation was to take place., and many a wistful eye 
was turned in the direction of the beautiful throne 


276 


upon which the fair queen was to receive the homage 
of her subjects. Dorothy felt that she would rather 
die than bow to kiss the hand of any other woman who 
might carry off the honor, and ten thousand times over 
would she die before she ever kissed the hand of Daisy 
Stafford. Why should she feel such spite against the 
innocent girl whom she had known less than a month? 
Was there anything in the past? Did Daisy Stafford 
bear any resemblance to any person whom the wealthy 
Mrs. Sinclair had occasion to fear? Let the events 
which follow decide that question. 

At last the moment arrived when the vote was to be 
cast. A dainty little maid, in a dress of cloud-like lace, 
stepped from an inclosure, bearing a tray upon which 
the ballots were to be placed, and while the gentlemen 
were busily working to elect the queen feminine eyes 
were turned in astonishment upon the angelic little 
creature who held their fates in her hands. A single 
glance at the dimpled face told Dorothy that she was 
again pursued by the awful nemesis who had haunted 
her life for the past six months. How her presence 
here had been managed she could not even conjecture, 
but the wee maid of honor was no less a person than 
— little Lillian, the waif, and turning her face away 
from the innocent accuser she saw fixed upon her in a 
look of inquiry, unfathomable, the eyes of Herbert Des- 
wald. Her blood ran cold at the sight, but there was 
yet a surprise for her; he stepped aside, and at his back 
she saw a creature more gorgeously beautiful than 
her wildest flights of fancy could ever have imagined 
her to be — Elia Chelini, her dress as a magnificent 
sunflower, in the full glory of the noonday sun. 

How she hoped it w^as all a hideous dream, a night- 
mare, from which she would soon awaken to find that 
there was no such person as Keginald Duchene, and his 
flower festival but a creation of her own fanciful mind. 
All the color faded from her face, leaving it as white as 
the dress she wore, and giving her the look of a beauti- 
ful statue, helpless, despairing, alone. For a moment 
she felt as though she must drop to the floor, but a 


277 


warning touch on the shoulder caused her to look up 
and she saw — Baron Von Floville. 

^^Take heart, beautiful flower,’’ he said, ^^the ballots 
are almost in; our host wears next his heart my lady’s 
favor, and in all this queenly throng there is none more 
fair than she.” 

Dorothy looked up with a faint smile. 

^^You are very kind,” she said, ^^but I fear I shall be 
compelled to go home and leave the fleld to my rival. 
I am ill.” 

^^You will do no such thing,” muttered the Baron; 
‘hlo you not see that it is just to this end Deswald is 
working? Once you have shown yourself such a cow- 
ard the case is his, and we are lost. Any one can see 
with half an eye he has enlisted that fool, Elia Chelini, 
on his side, and is only w^aiting for an opportunity to 
spring upon us. Our only hope is a brave fight, and if 
I once get my hands on her treacherous throat she shall 
die.” 

Dorothy looked up in frightened astonishment. 
There was something terribly earnest in his tone, and 
well she knew that Stanley Von Floville would scru- 
ple at nothing which promised success to his plans. 

The jingle of a silver bell warned them that the 
ballot had been counted, and the fair queen was to 
receive her crown. Keginald Duchene stepped upon 
the dias, and after a short address to the bevy of beau- 
ties who stood up in breathless suspense, announced 
that the honor had been aw^arded to Miss Daisy Staf- 
ford, upon whose head the glittering coronet was 
placed and she escorted to the throne by Mr. Val- 
win, with little Lillian as maid-of-honor. 

There was no one present but saw how justly she 
deserved the honor, and all were ready to bow before 
the acknowledged queen and kiss her jeweled hand, 
all save Dorothy, who swore .she would never bend her 
knee before an insane rival, who deserved incarceration 
instead of coronation. She swept past the throne with 
haughty grace, with simply a smile and bow to Daisy, 
an act not unnoticed by the watchful host, who smiled 
under his flowing beard and — wmited. 


278 


The supper served in the woodland bower was not 
to be surpassed, even by the richest king of the Orient, 
and the low, sweet strains of music issuing, apparently, 
from the foliage of the trees were as soft and sweet as 
the notes of an Aeolian harp. 

The host had arisen, lifted a glass of nectared cham- 
pagne to drink to the health of the lovely queen, when 
all eyes were tiirned to the doorway, and Daisy, with 
a low cry, fell forward, pale, trembling, insensible. In 
all the commanding height of his magnificent physique, 
with his great, solemn eyes fixed searchingly upon her, 
stood Dr. Garrison, and back of him the gentle, retiring 
figure and fair old face of Miss Stockton. 

Many minutes elapsed before Daisy could be restored 
to consciousness, and when at last the efforts of loving 
friends were rewarded b}^ seeing her eyes open, she 
begged to be allowed to go back to her dear mother 
and kind Mrs. Garrison. To the many inquiries put 
to him Dr. Garrison explained that the young girl was 
hopelessly insane, and had been abducted by Mr. Yal- 
wiu for some purpose unknown to him, an accusation 
which the old man did not try to deny, and when Dr. 
Garrison made known his intention to take her back 
to the hospital Mr. Valwin did not make the slightest 
resistance, only begging that she be permitted to re- 
main until the entertainment was over. To this Dr. 
Garrison readily agreed, and Mr. Duchene at once ex- 
tended an invitation to the doctor and Miss Stockton 
to join in the festivities, an invitation which they ac- 
cepted without reluctance. 

The ball opened according to the programme, the 
host dancing first with the queen and afterward re- 
linquishing her to Mr. Valwin, who claimed as many 
dances as he chose, leaving a few blank spaces for 
friends who might desire a waltz with the matchless 
pansy. 

^Mr. Deswald was the first to claim one of these 
waltzes, and as he wrote his name across the lavender 
and gold page of the tablet he bent over and whis- 
pered : 

''Daisy, my dear little girl, don't you know me?" 


279 


As if the words had been a cruel blow meant to 
fell her down she dropped to the floor for a second 
time that evening, and this time all efforts to restore 
her seemed futile. Like one cold and dead she lay, 
only a faint flutter of her heart giving them hope that 
life still lingered in the beautiful body. Keniedy after 
remedy was tried to no avail, until Mr. Deswald sug- 
gested they try ammonia, stating that he had heard 
of its proving very efficacious in cases where fainting 
Avas due to a lack of blood in the brain. 

Dr. Garrison wrinkled his brows in a frown, but did 
not demur, and the ammonia was brought in. A few 
drops on a lace handkerchief was placed at her nostrils, 
and the effect Avas marvelous. At a single inhalation 
a sigh fluttered over her lips, and the blue eyes opened 
in a startled, half-comprehensive manner. 

The drift of her thoughts must have still been on the 
question which had been such a shock to her, for she 
whispered : 

^‘Yes, I think I do.’^ 

The old lawyer turned his face away to conceal his 
look of satisfaction, and before Dr. Garrison could re- 
monstrate he had pushed back the sparkling coronet, 
and was bathing the young girPs broAV with the undi- 
luted liquid. 

By a deft movement the doctor struck his elbow, of 
course as an accident, and the bottle lay shattered at 
the lawyer^s feet. However, it was too late to deter his 
purpose. Around the edges of Daisy Stafford’s raven 
curls a faint line of purest gold began to gleam, and 
Mr. Deswald, drawing his own handkerchief from his 
pocket, Aviped the strong ammonia from her broAV, and 
with it — the unmistakable marks of black dye. 

The two men looked at each other for a brief mo- 
ment, deflant, daring,. Arm. 

Dr. Garrison turned on his heel, with a Ioav, mut- 
tered imprecation: 

defy you, sir! Do yonr AA’orst.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


THE '‘OLD, OLD STORY'' AGAIN. 

DR. GARRISON left the room as mysteriously as he 
had entered it, and shortly after his departure Miss 
Stocdvton disappeared also. The unique entertainment 
whicdihad begun under sucdi auspicious circumstances 
was rapidly losing its charm, and it was scarcely three 
o'clock when the tired guests took their leave; fairy 
waltzing was all well enough to talk about and sprinkle 
over the pages of a novel, but decidedly tiresome when 
carried out by persons who were not fairies at all. 

Dorothy was the last to leave, and as Reginald Du- 
chene wrapped the fur robe closely around her in the 
carriage he murmured softly: 

"Ah, my beautiful iris, though you failed to win the 
distinction of Floral Queen, you are, as you have been 
since the first glad moment we met, queen of my heart, 
and would to God it were in my power to snatch you 
from the old man who holds you an unwilling captive, 
bound to him by fetters no less galling because they 
are gold and jewel studded." 

Dorothy looked up in bewildered astonishment, 
though she was in a perfect transport of delight. That 
she should hear such words from the man over whom 
all society was raving was something wholly beyond 
her comi)rehension. Her father had said Mr. Sinclair 
could not possibly last longer than a few weeks. Was 
it probable that she might win Reginald Duchene after 
all? She asked herself the question, and as she did so 
Carl Wilmerding's fair, boyish face rose before her 
mind, white, stern, accusing. Was she not responsible 
for his ruined life and blasted hopes? And was there 
not another who owed his wild and wicked career to 


281 


her false, deceitful love? Ah, well, she had kept her 
own heart unscarred through the fight; let them do 
the same. If she had loved Carl she put him out of her 
life when she learned that her love was hopeless; let 
others do as she had done. The smile she bestowed 
upon Iteginald Duchene was enough to madden him, 
loving her as he did, yet reading her false heart to the 
very core. 

^Ts it possible that I have inspired other than a feel- 
ing of friendship in your heart for me, Mr. Duchene?’’ 
she asked, looking into the very depth of his passionate 
dark eyes, which, had she been wiser, she surely must 
have known at a glance. 

The tall man bent lower over her witching face. 

‘^Friendship, my darling? Would to God my way- 
ward heart might find contentment in the mild bliss of 
friendship for you. No, it is not that; the feeling you 
have inspired in my heart is a love, deep, maddening, 
and as unquenchable, unfathomable as the trackless 
expanse of yonder star-gemmed space. Since the first 
moment my eyes rested upon your face I have not been 
able to put you out of my thoughts, sleeping or Avaking, 
for a single second of time, and now I find that life 
without you will be a desert Avaste. I must either call 
you my oAvn, or I must leave this place and put betAveen 
myself and the being I adore as many miles as this 
small planet will afford. Do you not see hoAv my 
heart is yearning for you, Dorothy? Do you not know 
that my .ver}^ soul cries for you all the day. I deAused 
this entertainment that you might receive from my 
hand a gift I dare not offer otherAvise. That diamond 
coronet Avas purchased for my heart’s queen, and the 
silly fools whom I trusted to vote it to her placed it 
upon a rival’s head. Say that you Avill accept this 
from me, my love,” he pleaded, slipping over Dorothy’s 
slender finger a ring set aa ith a beautiful blood-red 
ruby, surmounted by diamonds and pearls — a ring that 
must have cost a small fortune. 

Dorothy looked doAvn at the costly gem, and the 
light that flashed from its crimson center seemed to 
send a chill to her heart such as no Avintry blast ever 


282 


blew. Words seemed to forsake her, and she stared 
helplessly into the face of the man like a wonderstruck 
child. 

^Wou do not answer me, Dorothy, but I can well 
understand your shy reserve. You will accept the ring 
from me as a token of the undying love I bear you, and 
wear it for my sake. It is an old heirloom, a sacred 
relic which has been in the Duchene family for gener- 
ations. There is a weird legend connected with it 
which I shall tell you if you give me permission to call 
to-morrow.’’ 

shall be delighted to hear it,” said Dorothy, in 
a voice so hoarse and unnatural that she shuddered at 
the sound of the words. 

^‘That is a sweet assurance, dear,” said Keginald 
Duchene, boldly kissing the i^ale face that shone so 
white and statuesque in the cold starlight of the win- 
try night. 

The next moment the massive doors of the brilliantly 
lighted mansion had closed behind him, and Dorothy 
was driving homeward over the icy roads, but, in spite 
of the frosty breeze that blew in her face, her cheeks 
were burning crimson, and her curved lips felt as 
though they had been seared by a red-hot iron. The 
blood was bounding through her veins like an im- 
prisoned flame, her heart leaping convulsively. What 
could it mean? Was that shallow soul touched at last 
by love? Touched, when it was forever too late for her 
to realize the sweet, tender joy which comes once and 
once only to every woman’s heart to make or mar her 
life? Reginald loved her! She kept repeating it over 
and over to herself as though the words had a hidden 
charm, and yet she felt that this love, so deep, so mad, 
and withal so sweet, would prove to be her doom. She 
seemed to see the prophecy written in letters of Are 
over the flashing ruby on her Anger, or dancing before 
her eyes when she lifted them to the great expanse of 
the cold, gray sky, over which faint hues of a roseate 
dawn were beginning to stretch in long ribbons of day- 
light’s glow. 

Tossing her ermine wraps to Suzanne in the hall. 


283 


the mistress of ^^Glyniont’^ ran up the stairs, threw 
open the door of the room in which little Lillian slept, 
and saw to her siirjjrise that the child was tucked 
cosily in bed and sound asleep. 

Mary, who was sleeping in an adjoining room, hear- 
ing the sound of footsteps in the nursery, entered from 
an opposite door and was surprised to see Mrs. Sin- 
clair still in her ball dress standing over the sleeping 
child. 

^‘HoXV long has Lillian been in bed?’’ asked Dorothy. 

^^Since seven o’clock,” replied the maid, sleepily. 

^‘Are 3^on sure she has not been up since then?” 
she asked again. 

^^Not to my knoAvledge, Madame,” rej)lied Mary; ^^and 
I think I should know if she had, since I have not been 
out of my room since I put her to bed.” 

‘‘That will do,” said Dorothy, turning to leave the 
room, and as she did so a tiny slip of paper on the floor 
at her feet caught her eye. Picking it up, she read in 
the dim light, “/ vote fo7^ Daisy Staffordy the heaiitifiil 
pansy and queen of the flowers , conclusive proof that her 
eyes had not deceived her in regard to the child’s pres- 
ence at the entertainment! 

Calling Mary back again, she said: 

“Hereafter I Avant you to see that every door and 
window to this room are locked securel}^, except the 
door leading to your oAvn room, and upon no condition 
are you to let any j)erson in there after Lillian is 
asleep. I have a horrid presentiment that the child 
AAull be stolen again.” 

“Your order shall be obeyed,” said Mary, and ^Irs. 
Sinclair SAvept from the room to snatch from the fly- 
ing hours a little rest before the hour for Eeginald Du- 
cdiene’s call. 

The AAdiole story of her loA^e for Carl had been duti- 
fully recited to Miss Flaxham, but she felt that she 
would rather die than let any eye have a glance into 
the secret chamber of her loA^e, neAAdy daAvned, for 
Eeginald Duchene. That he Avas other than he repre- 
sented himself to be — a Avealthy scion of a grand old 
French family — she never once dreamed of doubting. 


284 


Altlioiigli it was past four o'clock in the morning 
when she retired, nine o’clock found Dorothy at break- 
fast with Mr. Sinclair, as fresh and happy as though 
she had not lost a wdnk of her beauty sleep. 

In her haste to be dowm at this hour she forgot to 
remove the tell-tale ring w^hich gleamed upon her slen- 
der wdiite hand like an accusing eye, and the old man, 
who never failed to notice even the slightest change 
in her dress or adornment, saw it the first thing. 

“Why, Dorothy, my love,” he cried, “where did you 
get that beautiful ring?” 

A crimson blush mounted to her brow, but wdth the 
duplicity always at her tongue’s end she replied: 

“That ring, Mr. Sinclair, is an heirloom w^hich has 
been in the Merlebank family for nearly two hundred 
years. I think some Indian prince gave it to one of our 
ancestors wdiile he wms stationed there as army sur- 
geon for the Calcutta trooj^s in 1690.” 

“Then it is quite an old relic, and must be very valu- 
able,” said the old man, examining the setting closely. 

“I think its value is estimated at something like a 
thousand pounds, which is principally for its antiquity 
and the legend attached to it, I believe.” 

“What is the legend, my dear?” asked the old man, 
innocently. 

“It is really something very weird, Mr. Sinclair, and 
I am sure one more superstitious than myself would 
not care to wear an ornament around which so many 
blood-curdling stories circle. I shall tell you all about 
it some day when I feel equal to going over such horri- 
ble stories.” 

“I shall be pleased to hear it at any time, my dear,” 
replied Mr. Sinclair, returning to his broiled quail 
and steaming coffee wfithout the slightest suspicion 
of aught save the truth and simplicity of his young 
wife’s words. Not yet recovered from his recent ill- 
ness, the old man returned to his room shortly after 
breakfast and Dorothy fiew up to her boudoir to dress 
for Keginald Duchene, wTiom she knew would lose no 
time in coming to her, now that the ice was broken, 


285 


and, foolish creature that she was, she kissed the 
blood-red ruby, little dreaming that her last kiss on 
earth would be upon its crimson heart. Suzanne was 
giving the finishing touches to a superb morning toilet 
when Peter announced — 

^^Mr Keginald Duchene.’^ 

Miss Flaxham, entering the room at the same mo- 
ment, saw the hot blood mount to Dorothy’s cheeks, 
and at the same time read the carefully-guarded secret 
which the poor, erring child believed safe from watch- 
ful eyes. 

^Take care, my darling,” murmured the elder woman 
as she laid a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, ^^aud 
remember, even the fairest rose is not without thorns.” 
But words of warning usually fall on deaf ears when 
young hearts love, and Dorothy glided down the stairs 
to listen to the sweetest words that ever fell on a 
young girl’s ears, and drew one step nearer to the 
yawning gulf which opened before her all too near, 
though still unseen. 

^‘My darling Dorothy,” murmured the enraptured 
lover, as she entered the drawing-room, ^^perhaps I 
have been a little hasty in making this early morning 
call, but I could not remain longer away from my idol; 
I have come to tell you of the deepest love that man 
ever felt for woman, and to plead with you for just 
one word of hope that when my beautiful bird is re- 
leased from captivity her trembling wings will fiy to 
me for protection. Are you willing to listen to me, 
my dear?” 

Dorothy only answered him by a look, but it was a 
look' from which her lover took heart,, and he con- 
tinued : 

have learned to love you, Dorothy, and to know 
that my love must ever be a hopeless dream would 
be to die; but I have dared to hope that you would 
make me one little promise — a promise which will not 
cost you very much, but will mean all in life to me. 
It is this, my darling — promise me if ever you are free 
that I may come to you and again tell my love.” 


286 


The face lie looked into was flushed n rosy red, and 
the lips that replied were trembling. 

‘'Yes, Eeginald, I think you may,’’ she said. 

That was the second time since her marriage to Mr. 
Sinclair that she had made the same promise, but in 
spite of the joy that trembled in her heart, she saw 
before her the face of John Dumbarton, handsome, 
though dissipated, forgiving and yet accusing. What 
part had he pla^^ed in her past life that his face should 
haunt her like a death’s-head at a feast upon every 
important occasion in her life? 

Instead of the true, patient devotion which was will- 
ing to wait a lifetime for the glad realization of his 
hopes, which characterized Carl Wilmerding’s love for 
her, Reginald Duchene boldly took her in his arms, 
even though she was another man’s wife, took her in 
his arms and planted kiss after kiss upon her willing 
upturned face, calling her by every endearing term 
and praying in his wild, impetuous heart that God 
would remove from his path the only obstacle to his 
perfect happiness — an old man’s life. 

“Now, my dear, I shall tell you the legend of that 
antique ring, which was first worn by one of my an- 
cestors of the year 1700. The center stone, which ap- 
pears to be a ruby, is really nothing but a diamond, 
which has been drilled out to hold a single drop of a 
red liquid, the most deadly poison known to the an- 
cients. The ring was always worn as a charm by those 
who were in love, and so long as they remained loyal 
it was supposed to bring hai^piness to them, to prove 
a talisman against all evil; but to the first person who 
wore it and betrayed a sacred trust, whether in love 
or war, it was to be an instrument of destruction, deal- 
ing instant death to a heart untrue. However, it has 
brought only happiness to those who have worn it 
heretofore, and as such a talisman I bestow it upon 
you.” 

“God grant that it may bring only joy to both of us,” 
murmured Dorothy, kissing the flashing jewel Avhich 
for nearly two centuries had imprisoned a drop of 


287 

poison sufficient to kill half a dozen people, yet never 
dreaming that it could bring aught but happiness to 
her fortunate self. Whether it was to bring to her 
weal or woe, life or death, or whether it held any charm 
at all, time alone could tell. At any rate it never 
again left her finger, by night or day. 


CHAPTER XXXIV, 


A COMPLICATED PLOT. 

WHEN Dr. Garrison left the ballroom no one knew 
whither he went, and as no one save Mr. V^alwin and 
Daisy Stafford knew anything at all of him, it proved a 
rather hard matter to trace him. Instead of retiring 
when he left the Duchene mansion, Mr. Deswald drove 
to the principal hotels of the city, looking over the 
registers, hoping to find the name of the doctor, but he 
was rewarded by no such good fortune, and Dr. Gar- 
rison still remained a mystery, though the evening 
papers told a startling story of an old man who had 
dragged himself into the city, more dead than alive, 
and scarcely able to tell his story at all, who related 
a horrible experience of being knocked down, gagged, 
and bound, by masked men who had kidnapped the 
young girl whom he was accompanying to her home, 
and left him lying helpless and alone in the woods. 
The old man was onr honored friend, Mr. Valwin, and 
the young lady his beautiful protege, Daisy Stafford, 
and it was supposed the act had been perpetrated for 
the purpose of stealing her jewels. No one thought 
for a moment of connecting the singular abduction 
with Dr. Garrison, unless indeed it were Mr. Deswald, 
who shook his head sagely and kept his own counsels. 
Mr. Yalwin became a frequent visitor at the law office 
and a great friend of the quiet lawyer. That Jack 
Dumbarton might have been of great assistance in 
tracking this strange case was an open fact, but no 
one ever spoke of the young man now, and it were 
doubtful if any one thought of him. If Mr. Deswald 
knew of his whereabouts he kept his knowledge to him- 
self and Jack remained away, though there were those 


289 


who wou’d have welcomed his return any day, in spite 
of the rumors afloat that he had been in some way 
connected with Marguerite Courtney’s death, and 
dared not return while Mr. Sinclair lived. 

Several days went by and there was no news of Daisy 
Stafford, though everything was being done that skill 
could devise to learn her whereabouts. When the de- 
tectives gave up hope, Mr. Valwin announced his in- 
tention of going home, declaring he had only entered 
society to show poor Daisy something of life at the gay 
capital and if possible win her mind from the sad sub- 
ject of the burning boat. 

The same day Mr. Valwin left Washington Dr. Merle- 
bank returned, and for the flrst time Dorothy hailed 
his arrival with delight. It was almost a matter of in- 
difference to her now whether Mr. Sinclair left his 
money to her or not since she was practically engaged 
to the gold king of Australia, a title which Mrs. Van 
Kelpen had laughingly bestowed upon Keginald. Her 
only desire was freedom from the ties that bound her 
to the millionaire. 

Mr. Valwin returned to Belton, New Hampshire, 
and, as we have already surmised was his intention, 
drove at once to the ^‘Home Sanitarium.” True to his 
expectations he found Daisy there, apparently much 
improved since her return, though Dr. Garrison de- 
clared her case was much more critical than it had 
been for several months, a state of affairs wholly at- 
tributable to the excitement she had undergone while 
on her trip to Washington. This emphatic statement 
did not cause the old man the slightest twinge of con- 
science, and he mentally resolved that he would treat 
the young lady to another similar journey at the first 
favorable opportunity. 

Whether Mr. Deswald was in any way connected 
with this second trip of Mr. Val win’s to the ^^Home 
Sanitarium” or not he was in receipt of several letters 
from that point, and the expression which usually 
played over his features when he read these letters was 
not an expression that would have pleased either Dr. 

10 


290 


Garrison or Dr. Merlebank could they have been pres- 
ent at the time. 

As for Stanley Von Floville, Fate had jdayed him a 
rather shabby trick in regard to Elia Chelini, upon 
whom he had staked so much, and he fully made up 
his mind that she should suffer for her treachery, once 
he could learn where she was staying. However, the 
Baron was, financially, on pretty fair terms with the 
world, and any person now calling him a ^^moneyless 
Baron’’ would surely have misapplied the term, though 
where he got his money w as still a question of doubt. 
As yet Dorothy had been able to extract nothing from 
Mr. Sinclair except a liberal supply of spending money, 
which she usually spent as fast as she received, so it 
was not probable that he wms indebted to her for the 
change in his affairs. His visits to ^‘Glymont” were 
very rare, though he professed to feel the w^armest 
friendship for Mr. Sinclair, and was certainly on the 
most pleasant terms wdth Mrs. Sinclair. Perhaps it 
wms Joshua’s wmtchful eyes that had seen a trifie more 
of the Baron’s visits to ^HJlymont” than he had meant 
for any person to see, it therefore became expedient 
that he should be careful. Joshua would accept no 
more bribes from him, while in days gone by his grasp- 
ing nature had been ready to catch at the smallest op- 
l)ortunity to make a dollar. This puzzled Von Floville 
and made him extremely careful of the boy’s presence. 
He well knew that it was something more than hon- 
esty, newly awmkened in Joshua’s life, that made him so 
scrupulous. How^ever, a hundred thousand dollars is 
not to be picked up every day, neither w^as it the 
Baron’s intention to drop his share of the game and let 
the opportunity to win a fortune slip from his hands. 

As ^^straws show which way the wind blows,” so art- 
ful glances and shy blushes showed wdiich way Dor- 
othy’s susceptible heart was being led, and Stanley 
Von Floville knew that she was as deeply infatuated 
wdth Beginald Duchene as she had been a few months 
ago wdth Carl Wilmerding, and was still desirous of her 
freedom (?) from Mr. Sinclair. In his eager precip- 
itancy to bring matters to a focus, he did not perceive 


291 


the strong evidence that was slowly but surely closing 
around his head, and both he and the impulsive woman 
who trusted his wiser judgment and riper years rushed 
madly on to the doom that awaited them. 

Under cover of an afternoon drive to the far-famed 
Glen-echo, he planned for an immediate understanding 
with Dorothy. They were scarcely outside the grounds 
of ^^Glymont’’ when he began: 

^‘Is it not time we were bringing our affairs to a cli- 
max, Mrs. Sinclair?’’ 

do not understand, Baron,” said Dorothy, looking 
inquiringly into the wickedly-handsome face, which, in 
spite of the smile which habitually jjlayed about his 
mouth, was stern, cold, and treacherous. 

^^We may as well be plain at once. To tell the unvar- 
nished truth, Dorothy, I am about out of money, and I 
must have the hundred thousand dollars you promised 
me, or I shall be forced to use other means I have in 
my power of making it.” 

Dorothy shuddered with fright and grew pale under 
the awful horror that seized her. 

^^Surely, Baron, you will not drive me beyond the 
limits of possibility. Papa only returned yesterday, 
and I think he will be able to set matters straight be- 
fore the holidays. .Until then I can do nothing. You 
have all my — ” 

^^There! that will do,” interrupted the Baron, ^^you 
mean I had them. I assure you they are no longer in 
my possession. I only got five hundred dollars for the 
last article, and five of that had to be paid for this very 
buggy. I merely mention that to show you how fast 
money flies in Washington. The place beats Paris for 
squandering funds. By the last of next week I shall 
be without a penny. By the way, that’s a pretty ring 
you have on. I dare say I could get a hundred or so on 
that from Einstine, if you will turn it over to me.” 

‘^That is a family heirloom,” she said, ‘^and I can not 
trust it with a pawnbroker.” 

An intelligent light flashed over the Baron’s face. 

^^An heirloom of the Duchene family, I suppose,” he 
said, watching the crimson tide that swept over her 


292 


features, then slowly receded, leaving her deadly white. 

think Duchene had it on his finger the night of the 
^Fairy Ball.^ ’’ 

^‘Yoii are entirely mistaken,^’ faltered Dorothy. ‘‘This 
ring has been in the Merlebank family for over two 
hundred years, and Eeginald Duchene never saw it, to 
my knowledge.’^ 

“That story will do to tell your doting old husband, 
or some other person who does not know you,’’ said the 
Baron, “but for me you must prepare something more 
plausible. I saw that ring before I ever saw you. 
Reginald Duchene slipj^ed it on your finger as you were 
getting into your carriage the morning after the ball. 
A few hours later he called to tell you the legend which 
is connected with it. Now, my little girl, beware of its 
power, and remember it is death and destruction to all 
who are disloyal, either in love or war. Your case and 
mine is no less a war because it is silently carried on. 
I have with me to-day a tiny phial of a liquid that pro- 
duces sleep, sleep from which no power on earth can 
awaken, and I shall give it to you ere we reach home. 
Into the glass of wine your husband takes to-night I 
shall expect you to place a single drop. The poison 
will leave no trace. I defy any doctor to detect it. 
When you open your eyes to-morrow you will be free, 
free to marry Reginald Duchene before the sun sets, if 
you choose, and the verdict the coroner renders over 
the death of James Sinclair will be — heart-failure. 
Blind fools that they are! As if a death ever occurred 
from another cause!” He broke into a low, discordant 
laugh. “Are you not happy, Dorothy, to know that in 
so short a time you shall be free?” 

“I can not murder my husband, Baron Yon Floville, 
however much I may desire to be free.” 

“You are a fool!” exclaimed Yon Floville, giving the 
reins an angry ierk and causing the horse to plunge for- 
ward with such a force as to almost pitch them both 
from the buggy. “I suppose you prefer to have him die 
by slow tortures from broken doses of strychnia or 
other virulent poison that makes his last end a convul- 
sive nightmare, a thousand deaths to him and a horror 


293 


to those around him. Of course at such a distressing 
time his loving young wife will be prostrated witli 
grief and will know nothing of his last sad moments 
except that some discreet person is attending to the 
signing of the will.’^ 

^‘As a matter of course the will must be signed. 
Otherwise I should get only one-third of the Sinclair 
fortune, which would be a mere pittance after you and 
my honored father had received your shares of the 
spoils,^’ said Dorothy, using what she thought to be a 
very strong argument. 

will is in now^ise necessary, my dear,^’ said the 
Baron. ^^Everett Sinclair, the last heir to the Sinclair 
estate, died yesterday. I saw an announcement of his 
death in the paper this morning, and in case of your 
husband^s demise, whether he makes a will or not, 
his wife would receive the bulk of his property. Are 
you willing now to follow my instructions?’^ 

^^Give me the phial,” said Dorothy, faintly. The 
phial the Baron produced was such a miniature affair 
that it could easily be carried inside one’s glove, and 
that was just where Dorothy concealed it. The liquid 
it contained was perfectly colorless, and at a glance 
one would certainly suppose it to be empty. 

course you understand,” said Dorothy, ^Tt may 
be several days before I am able to administer a dose 
of this wonderful sleeping potion.” 

^^Yes, I know all that,” replied the Baron, ^^but it 
must be done inside of one week or I shall seek some 
other way of winning the amount due me, according 
to the contract you signed while in Paris.” 

It were well for the Baron that wishes could not 
kill, for had such a thing been possible he would surely 
have been dead at Dorothy’s feet. I think at that mo- 
ment she felt a hatred for him such as she had never 
felt for any human being before. Had either of them 
stopped to think for a moment they would have seen 
how absurd a thing it was to drive to “Glen-echo” on 
a cold winter afternoon, but they were busy with their 
own thoughts and did not realize the absurdity of their 
trip until they reached the woodland retreat, so per- 


294 


fectly beautiful in the soft, green foliage of the early 
spring, or the red and gold tints of autumn; so desolate, 
bleak and bare, when winter has stripped the trees of 
their leaves, and tossed them in brown heaps over the 
frozen ground. 

Upon their return to ^‘GlymonU’ Baron Von Floville 
assisted Dorothy to alight from the buggy, and, spring- 
ing in again, drove back to the city. 

When he reached his apartments at the hotel he was 
surprised to find Elia Chelini comfortably seated in his 
room, apparently waiting for his return. She rose 
as Von Floville entered the room, and extended to him 
a slender, well-shaped hand, although a hand some- 
what hardened by toil and exposure. 

^Bs it possible that you have at last sought me!^’ 
asked Von Floville, in his usual grulf tone when ad- 
dressing one he held in his power. 

‘^Is not the time opportune?’’ asked the woman, re 
seating herself. 

‘^That depends upon the arrangement you have made 
with Destvald,” he replied, dropping into a chair a few 
feet away from her. "'First, last, and always, I wish 
you to understand that I will have nothing to do with 
a person who pretends to be my ally and yet deliber- 
ately takes sides with the enemy. When you have 
quite finished with Deswald you may report to me; 
until you have done so I want nothing more to do with 
you.” 

The woman smiled. 

""Are you prepared to listen to me, Stanley?” she 
asked. 

""Yes, out with your business,” replied the Baron. 

""In the first place,” she said, ""I entered into the 
scheme which you had plotted for the sake of my sis- 
ter’s children, in order to obtain money ta raise and ed- 
ucate them. Not in the smallest degree have I deviated 
from my first promise to you, and I am here to push my 
claim as the wife of James Sinclair. My relations to 
Mr. Deswald have been purely of a social nature. 
Whether or not he can refute my claim I have been 
unable to learn. However, he spenktwo weeks in Genoa 


21)5 

searching for proofs of Mrs. Sinclair’s death, and I am 
sure he was unable to find them. The papers, marriage 
certificate, and letters are still in my possession, and 
I shall, with your permission, deliver them to an at- 
torney to-morrow morning.” 

‘‘No,” said the Baron, thoughtfully, “if vou are tell- 
ing me the truth I do not think it will be necessary to 
place the matter in an attorney’s hands. You were a 
half-sister of my truant wife. I shall go with you to Mr. 
Sinclair to-morrow morning, lay the entire case before 
him, convince him of the proofs you hold, and if he then 
refuses to acknowledge you as his wife we will turn the 
matter over to some reputable attorney, and force him 
to make allowance for you. Merlebank will do the rest. 
His only daughter the victim of a bigamous marriage! 
Preposterous!” 

Elia Chelini laughed outright. 

“Indeed, Stanley, you are a great schemer. I fancy 
from all I know of Merlebank’s only daughter she is 
able to hold her own against any one. 1 never saw 
more perfect acting than she did at the ‘Villa Fran- 
caise,’ in Paris, the day I made my first appearance 
there, and I am sure her father would far rather put 
us to naught than have our claim made true. An old 
man’s life is not hard to dispose of and then all would 
be theirs without interference of ours.” 

“Merlebank would never dare to defy me,” said Von 
Floville, reassuringly. “I know too much of his past 
for that.” 

The door of the room in which this conversation took 
place was securely locked; there was positively no one 
present except Von Floville and the Italian woman, 
yet a special messenger carried the following note to 
Mr. Sinclair that night at ten o’clock: 

“Beware of the woman who professes to be Elia Chel- 
ini Sinclair. Make no concession whatever to her, and 
trust the balance to me — 

“Herbert Deswald.” 

That some serious complication had suddenly arisen 
Mr. Sinclair had not the slightest doubt, and he grew 


296 


very nervous when he read the hastily scribbled lines. 
Dorothy saw her chance. 

Would you like a glass of sherry, Mr. Sinclair?^’ she 
asked, arranging the head-rest for him and stroking 
back his silvery locks with wifely solicitude. 

^Wes, I think I should,’’ replied the old man, closing 
his eyes wearily. 

^^Ah, there is no glass here,” said Dorothy, ^‘but I 
will get one from my own room.” 

The hand that held the glass of amber liquid was 
trembling violently when she asked: 

^^Will you take it now, Mr. Sinclair?” 

^‘Presently,” he replied faintly, and Dorothy depos- 
ited the tiny glass on a table at his side and left the 
room. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


CHECKMATED. 

HUKKYING at once to Miss Flaxliam^s room Doro- 
thy dropped into a chair and covered her face with her 
hands, as she cried out: 

^^Oh, ^Delle, for God’s sake tell me if I have done 
right.” 

‘‘Why, Dorothy, my darling, what in the world is the 
matter?” asked the nurse, laying an arm caressingly 
around the young girl’s neck. 

“I have followed Stanley Von Floville’s instructions 
and committed murder,” replied Dorothy tragically. 

“Of course you have done no such thing,” said Miss 
Flaxham; “you are distressing yourself needlessly.” 

“I tell you I have!” persisted Dorothy, trembling in 
every nerve. 

“Then who in the wide world have you murdered? 
Surely not little Lillian?” 

“No, not Lillian,” replied Dorothy. “Ah, ’Delle, you 
do not know me at all if you think I would harm one 
hair of that innocent child’s head. No! never! I have 
given Mr. Sinclair a glass of drugged wine, and even 
now it may be too late to save him.” 

Miss Flaxham threw up her hands in horror, and, 
without a moment’s delay, she darted out of the room 
just in time to see Mr. Sinclair replace the glass on the 
table after draining it of the last drop of the drugged 
wine. Quick as a flash she was out of the room, and in 
an incredibly short space of time returned with a glass 
of warm water into which a tablespoonful of mustard 
had been stirred, and in spite of Mr. Sinclair’s protest- 
ation that there was nothing wrong with him, insisted 


298 


upon his drinking the emetic immediately. There was 
no time for explanation; that could follow later. 

When her purpose had been satisfactorily accom- 
plished, the nurse explained that Dorothy had gotten 
hold of the wrong bottle and given Mr. Sinclair a glass 
of wine which she had prepared with strychnine and 
iron as a tonic for herself. 

Dorothy paced the floor in an agony of suspense. 
She had conjured up all sorts of horrid pictures of a 
gallovvs and a hangman’s rope. Upon looking back 
she could not think how she had ever persuaded herself 
to do such a thing, and when she was once more alone 
with the nurse she threw her arms around her and 
V, ept bitter, scalding tears. 

“Oh, ’Delle, what should L do if it were not for you? 
Thank God joiir presence of mind has saved me from 
the sin of murder.” 

Miss Flaxham stroked the fluffy brown head tenderly 
and kept silent until the first hysterical flt of weeping 
was spent, then she said calmly : 

“Yes, Dorothy; I thank God it was not too late. Mr. 
Sinclair had a very narrow escape. Whatever put it 
into your head to do such a thing, my dear?” 

“Stanley Yon Floville,” sobbed Dorothy, bursting 
into tears afresh. “Oh, ’Delle, I hope I shall never see 
his hateful face again. He gave me the poison and 
made me promise to administer a dose of it the very 
first chance I had. I think I must have been mad to 
listen to him,” and at this point Dorothy made a full 
confession of everything that had transpired since her 
marriage to Mr. Sinclair, ending up by an open avowal 
of her love for Keginald Duchene, and imploring Miss 
Flaxham to advise her what to do. 

“Only wait, my dear,” said the elder woman sooth- 
^^Mr. Sinclair can not last long, not more than 
a few months at best, and after that you will be free, 
free without the stain of murder on these fair little 
hands. I promise you that neither your father nor 
Stanley Yon Floville shall make a widow of you before 
the proper time. James Sinclair may die to-night, and 
he may live several months, but when the summons 


299 


comes it shall be from an omnipotent voice, not 
through the medium of human guilt. From my own 
pocket-book have I paid for the wine that old million- 
aire is drinking, because every drop of sherry in his 
own cellar was drugged by Dr. Merlebauk before I 
reached here last month.’’ 

Dorothy looked at the woman in astonishment, 
hat does all this mean, ’Delle?” she asked. 

^^It means that I have started out on a new track, 
my dear, and let the sins of my past life be what they 
may, for the future I mean to lead an upright life, and 
by God’s help I shall try to convert your father at 
least to be an honest man.” 

There were tears in the magnificent eyes when she 
ceased speaking; tears of honest repentance if they 
ever fell from human eyes. 

^^What has wrought this great change in you, 
’Delle?” asked Dorothy, wonderingly. 

^‘Never mind, dearie,” replied the nurse. ^^The cause 
matters little, the change is here,” she added, laying 
her hand over her heart like a penitent child. 

Dorothy now understood why it was that Mr. Sin- 
clair’s health had continued to improve ever since Miss 
Flaxhani’s return, yet her false heart found no cause 
for joy in the thought. The nurse’s reformation would 
certainly not be conducive to her happiness, rather it 
would prolong her misery, for such her forced separa- 
tion from Eeginald Duchene had become. She retired 
to her own chamber with a deep regret that she had not 
left Von Flovi lie’s poison to do its deadly work, and 
trusted to fate for her own safety. 

Suzanne hovered over her half the night, bathing her 
head with eau-de-cologne, because her eyes were so red, 
and the unsuspecting maid declared Madame’s drive in 
an open buggy had given her a dreadful cold. 

The door of Dorothy’s bed-chamber had scarcely 
closed behind her when Dr. Merlebank rapped on Miss 
Flaxham’s door, and to her gentle ^^come,” he entered 
the apartment. 

The nurse had just laid aside her corkscrew curls and 
heavy green goggles and was standing before the mir- 


300 


ror combing out her long, luxuriant, brown hair. The 
first thing the Doctor noticed was traces of tears on 
her cheeks, and he at once drew her into his arms. 

“What has happened that my darling’s eyes should 
be red from weeping?” he asked. 

Miss Flaxham turned her face away from his search- 
ing gaze, as she replied: 

“Oh, nothing of great importance. I haye only been 
listening to Dorothy’s longing for freedom, and it 
makes my heart ache to see the child so miserable.” 

“That is all nonsense, utter nonsense,” said the Doc- 
tor. “I can not see where Dorothy has any room for 
complaint. She is decidedly better off than she ever 
was in her life before. If she owned the earth she 
would cry for the moon, so there is no need of your 
crying over her babyish fancies. She certainly does 
as she pleases, has all the money she wants; what more 
does she desire?” 

“Young hearts love companionship, Jerry, and Dor- 
othy is no exception to the rule.” 

“I think, from the number of visits she has received 
from Reginald Duchene in the past two weeks, she has 
no cause to cry for companionship,” said the Doctor, 
ironically. “Don’t spoil your pretty face crying over 
her, ’Delle; she will be free soon enough!” 

“Perhaps,” said Miss Flaxham, slowly, disengaging 
herself from his arms and returning to the mirror. 

“There is no perhaps about it,” replied Dr. Merlebank. 
“That old man has swallowed enough strychnine to kill 
an ox. He can not possibly hold out more than a week 
or two longer. His life will go out like a candle when 
he does go. Thank fortune that Everett Sinclair is 
dead. We have no occasion to trouble about a will 
now. Of course, there being no heir, Dorothy will get 
everything, and she has promised me one half of every 
dollar she gets, which means that it will only be a few 
weeks before I am master of half a million, and the 
hanpiest man in Her Majesty’s kinjrdom.” 

Miss Flaxham turned round and faced him squarely. 

“You certainly do not mean that you will return to 
England, Jerry?” 


301 


''Most assuredly/’ replied the Doctor. ''Why should 
I not return to England if I choose, my dear?” 

For reply Miss Flaxham pointed out a paragraph in 
the London Times which had arrived that day, and af- 
ter the Doctor had scanned it closely he muttered: 

"Confound it all, luck is against me, any how. The 
damned set of ferrets they keep at Scotland Yards are 
continually poking their noses into things that do not 
concern them. I thought that little piece of business 
was hushed up years ago.” 

The nurse laid a soft white hand on his shoulder. 

"Do you not see, Jerry, that 'the way of the trans- 
gressor is hard?’ Why not give it all up and live an 
honest life? My heart is yearning for the freedom and 
quiet of the dear old days before such wild fancies and 
dreams of great gain entered your head. Let us go 
back to it, Jerry, and start anew.” 

"Damn it all, don’t preach to me, ’Delle. I abomi- 
nate pious people. I would not go back to the tame 
existence cf the first five years — oh, don’t look so hor- 
rified; I shall not compromise you — I would not go 
back to such a life if I knew the guillotine awaited me.” 

"Will you not reconsider your words, for my sake, 
Jerry?” 

"No, not even for the sake of my soul. Cease your 
preaching; you are wasting time. My mind is fully 
made up and no amount of such nonsensical piety will 
change it.” 

With that he strode out of the room and Miss Flax- 
ham dropped upon her knees and prayed as she had 
never prayed before that God in His goodness would 
turn the heart of the wayward man who — was so dear 
to her, but there are times, it is said, that even God 
himself can not reclaim a sinner, and it must have been 
so in Dr. Merlebank’s case, for he persisted in the vile 
work he had begun, regardless of every warning, and 
like Samson of old, crushed himself in the attempt 
to crush others. It never occurred to him that Mr. Sin- 
clair was drinking any wine but that which he had pre- 
pared for him, and at the hour of midnight, when the 
household was asleep, he crept into the old man’s room 


302 


and dropped a double quantity of the virulent poison 
into the bottle which Miss Flaxham had bought, never 
once dreaming that the act would cause him the deep- 
est sorrow of his life. 

Cautiously wending his way back through the dark 
hall he ran against some person who was going in the 
direction of the old man’s room, and as he did so the 
ringing sound of a glass, shattered at his feet, echoed 
through the hall, and before he could get a light to as- 
certain who it was a door somewhere in the hall opened 
and shut, and a white-robed figure vanished through 
its portal. Whether it was Dorothy, Mis"s Flaxham, 
or one of the servants he was unable to tell, but we 
may be pretty sure that it was not a servant when we 
know that the last drop of Stanley V on Floville’s won- 
derful sleeping potion was at that moment soaking 
into the polished oaken floor. 

Instead of being called up to attend a dying man 
as he expected to be the following morning, Dr. Merle- 
bank was surprised to find Mr. Sinclair in the best of 
health and spirts at the breakfast table. 

don’t believe the devil himself could kill the old 
fool,” muttered the Doctor under his breath. 
tenth part of that strychnine was enough to kill an ox, 
while he seems to grow fat on it.” 

Breakfast was scarcely over when Peter came to an- 
nounce — 

^^Baron Von Floville and Mrs. Elia Chelini Sinclair.” 

At the sound of that name the old man turned pale 
as death, and in spite of the warmth of the room his 
teeth chattered together. 

^^Show them in,” he said, looking helplessly at Doro- 
thy, Avho had risen to leave the room, but ]3aused at 
the mention of the Avoman’s name. 

thought that woman’s case had been settled,” 
she said. 

thought so myself, dear,” said the old man, though 
his holloAV Amice plainly indicated the fear he felt that 
it had not. 

By this time the two were in the room. 


303 


‘^Have you yet no welcome for me, James asked the 
woman, pausing before him. 

^^None,’’ came the half-audible response, and she 
seated herself while the Baron came forward. 

^^Mr. Sinclair,” he began, “it is a painful duty that is 
forced upon me that I speak to you as I must this 
morning. However, in justice to the sister of my be- 
loved wife, I have come here to say that you must 
either recognize the lawful claim this lady brings 
against you and acknowledge her as your wife, or the 
law will have to take its course, and you shall be 
branded before the world for what you are — a biga- 
mist!” 

When the Baron ceased speaking Elia Chelini came 
forward, dropped upon her knees before Mr. Sinclair 
and murmured tremulously: 

“Think of my position in the eyes of the world, 
James; think how I have suffered as a disowned wife, 
and ask yourself if you have kept the vows you plight- 
ed before God^s holy altar to love, honor, and cherish, 
even unto death, the woman you made your wife.” 

The old man rose, looked dowm upon her from his 
majestic height, and in a hoarse, though steady, voice 
he said: 

“Woman, I know you not. The wife whom I swore 
to love, honor, and cherish through life has for five 
long years slept the sleep that knows no waking, under 
the sod of the Genoese churchyard, and this young 
girl is before God and man my lawfully-wedded wife.” 

Baron Von Floville produced a paper, worn and 
yellow. 

“As far as your good intentions go, that may be true, 
Mr. Sinclair; but so long as this paper is in existence 
and this woman swears that it is a certificate of her 
marriage to you, I think you will have a rather hard 
time of it to make the world believe your story. Elia 
Chelini has no desire to again face the world as the 
consort of a man of your calibre ” 

The sentence was cut short by a blow aimed directly 
at the Baron’s head, and before any one was aware of 
his presence in the room Mr. Deswald had felled the 


304 


German to the floor and with clinched fist and grinding 
teeth was saying to him: 

‘^You villain, you unprincipled scoundrel, you shall 
answer to me for this insult to an honorable man!’’ 

The Baron scrambled to his feet, with the expres- 
sion of a whipped dog on his face, and in a tone he 
meant to sound commanding he said: 

‘^This insult can only be wiped out in blood! My 
seconds will wait on you, Mr. Deswald.” 

Herbert Deswald accepted the challenge with a pro- 
found bow and a smile of gentlemanly grace, and be- 
fore any one could speak or utter a word of remon- 
strance Baron Von Floville and his much-abused (?) 
sister-in-law had beat an ignominious retreat. 


I 


XXXVL 


BY WHOSE HAND COMMITTED? 

DR. MERLEBANK had concealed himself behind a 
screen to listen to the strange accusations that were 
being brought against the husband of his daughter, 
and for the first time he realized what a foolish thing 
he had done in restoring peace between the two upon 
his return from the ‘^Honie Sanitarium.’’ Everything 
had gone awry, and the entire plot had become so en- 
tangled that even the chief actors in the drama were 
beginning to wonder how they could make their way 
out without compromising themselves in some serious 
w^ay. Dorothy looked upon the whole affair wdth ex- 
treme disgust. Her mind was fully made up to marry 
Reginald Duchene as soon after the old man’s death 
as decency would permit, and it now became a matter 
of indifference to her whether she inherited his fortune 
or not. It never occurred to her that the ^^Gold King 
of Australia” might not care to marry a penniless 
woman. She did not utter a single word while the 
Baron was making his charge, and she really hoped 
he might be able to prove the truth of his statement. 
She had long since learned that the happiest fate was 
by no means tlie fate of being ^^an old man’s darling,” 
and 3^et she had made her own choice. 

As soon as Baron Von Floville and Elia Chelini were 
safely out of the way Mr. Desw^ald requested Mr. Sin- 
clair to accomi:)any him to the library, where they 
might talk over the new^ developments in the case 
undisturbed. 

As the sound of the library door closing after them 
greeted his ears Dr. Merlebank emerged from his hid- 
ing place and followed Dorothy up the stairs to her 


30G 


boudoir. He was especially desirous of being on 
friendly terms with his daughter this morning, and he 
slapped her playfully on the shoulder as he said: 

“Well Doll, my dear, how do you like the present 
state of affairs?’^ 

Dorothy turned upon him a flushed face and a pair 
of flashing eyes. All the lurking fires in their fathom- 
less depth had sprung to the surface, and she looked 
like a demon incarnate as she exclaimed: 

“How do I like it? I^d like to murder that old vil- 
lain for the trick he has played me.’’ 

“Then why not do it?” asked the Doctor, with a 
fiendish grin on his fat, red face. “I am sure it w^ould 
be just the easiest thing in the world.” 

“It doesn’t seem to have been so easy for you to do,” 
replied Dorothy, cuttingly. 

“Oh, I have not tried very hard,” replied her father, 
nothing daunted by her ill temper. “However, my 
dear, I am here to say that I think the better plan 
would be to strike the old man for, say, five hundred 
thousand, and leave murder out of the question.” 

“You are here to suggest a thing I tried before I 
left Paris and failed,” cut in Dorothy, irritably. “The 
old miser would as soon think of giving me his head 
as a half of his fortune. He is so completely under 
the power of that scheming old lawyer who tried to 
marry his granddaughter, that no one else can have 
the slightest influence over him.” 

“Who ever said Deswald tried to marry Marguerite 
Courtney?” asked the Doctor, quickly. 

“Wdio ever said so?” repeated Dorothy. “Why, it 
was the talk of Washington last season. No doubt 
he would have married her had not Jack Dumbarton 
entered the field, young, handsome, and a favorite with 
every one. After that he had not the ghost of a show.” 

“Happily for us, neither of them have a ghost of a 
show now,” said Dr. Merlebank, and he added, thought- 
fully, “since she is dead.” 

Dorothy stared at him critically. 

“WTiat in the world are you talking such nonsense 
for?” she asked. 


307 


was only thinking/^ replied her father, ^^of the 
adaptability of Burns^ words — ^The best laid schemes 
o^ mice and men,’ etc.” 

^‘You are thinking a great deal of nonsense,” said 
Dorothy. ^^For my part, I think we are in the midst 
of a serious trouble. Herbert Deswald is prying into 
everything that does not concern him, and it is just 
possible that he may take it into his meddlesome old 
head to go to Leicester, England, before he is done. 
I suppose you realize the position that would place 
us in.” 

The Doctor’s face grew a trifle less florid as he re- 
plied : 

shall take the affair in my own hands and wind 
up this business here at the earliest possible date. You 
have already promised me one-half of every dollar you 
received from Sinclair. My demand shall be for five 
hundred thousand; that would be a pretty fair recom- 
pense, and I fancy we could get along pretty comfort- 
ably on that for the rest of our days.” 

‘^Manage it your own way, your own way, and for 
Heaven’s sake don’t trouble me with it. I am sick and 
tired of the entire business,” said Dorothy, closing her 
eyes wearily. 

Dr. Merlebank saw that his presence was no longer 
desired, and he left the room, just in time to see old 
Peter close the door after Mr. Deswald. 

Knowing that ^Ir. Sinclair was now alone, he went 
at once to the library. 

should like to have half an hour’s talk with you,” 
he said, as Mr. Sinclair motioned him to a seat. 

am at your service, sir,” replied the old man, 
calmly. 

Dr. Merlebank at once assumed a bravado position. 

^^May I ask, sir, what you intend to do in regard to 
the unpleasant position in which you have placed my 
daughter?” 

^^Most certainly,” said the old man; expect to do 
just, what any honest man would do under the same 
circumstances — prove that I am not guilty of the 


308 


charge this false woman makes and that your daugh- 
ter is my lawful wife/’ 

Whether the voice issued from the floor, the ceiling, 
or from some invisible spirit, they could never tell, but 
as the last words fell from Mr. Sinclair’s lips they 
heard some one say, clearly and distinctly: 

^^That you will never be able to doP^ 

Both men sprang to their feet, and, though every 
corner of the room was searched, no trace of any one 
was found, and as they resumed their seats Mr. Sin- 
clair said: 

^^Don’t try to practice ventriloquial tricks on me, 
Merlebank; I will not be hoodwinked by that sort of 
thing. I have been guilty of no wrong. When I made 
your daughter my wife I believed myself, as I still be- 
lieve, free to wed whom I choose. If Elia Chelini 
proves her claim I shall make reparation to Dorothy 
as far as it is possible to repair such an injury. Until 
the case is settled by my lawyer I shall do nothing.” 

^Wou certainly take the matter very coolly,” said the 
Doctor, ironically. 

have no occasion to do otherwise,” replied Mr. 
Sinclair. ^‘Deswald believes the entire case to be a 
scheme for extracting money from me, and a fabrica- 
tion from beginning to end. I have put the case in his 
hands, and shall not trouble myself about it again.” 

^‘Then you refuse to pay my daughter the flve hun- 
dred thousand dollars, as she suggested some time ago, 
as the price of her silence?” 

^‘Absolutely,” replied Mr. Sinclair, without the 
slightest elevation of his voice. 

“Very well, Mr. Sinclair,” said the Doctor; “I shall 
wait for further developments. If Elia Chelini proves 
that she is your wife, and my darling child the dupe 
of your villainous sins, I swear by all that I hold sa- 
cred that you shall be punished to the full extent of the 
law, and your last days, instead of being spent in the 
ease and luxury to which you have been accustomed, 
shall be dragged out in a felon’s cell, and your expiring 
breath pass through prison bars to the Supreme Bar 
of Justice, where social position, w^ealth, nor prestige 


309 


of name can appease the wrath of the Omnipotent 
Kuler who recognizes sin by its right name, whether 
it is committed by a beggar or a millionaire, and pun- 
ishes each soul according to his crime. I swear to you 
my innocent child shall be avenged. 

With that the Doctor strode out of the library, and 
it is just possible that he forgot that he was delivering 
this lecture to the millionaire under his own roof, 
while he was only there on sufferance, and when w'e 
consider how superfluous his presence was at ^^Gly- 
mont’’ we may be able to realize the impertinence he 
displayed. 

Mr. Sinclair only smiled at his insolence. He had 
learned some things from Mr. Deswald that morning 
which made the whole business appear as an immense 
joke to him, and he was now looking on to see how it all 
would end, much as one does upon a game of chess 
when expert players are moving the men. 

For some time after her father left her Dorothy sat 
in front of the crackling wood Are, trying in vain to 
plan some way by which she might get out of the di- 
lemma in w^hich Elia Chelini’s second appearance had 
placed her. Before night all Washington would know 
that the legality of her marriage was again in question, 
and to remain at ^^GlymonF^ would certainly place her 
in a very dubious light. 

She touched the bell for Suzanne and ordered a cup 
of chocolate brought to her at once. In a few minutes 
the maid returned with the steaming beverage, and on 
the tray beside the cup lay a note addressed to ^‘Mrs. 
James Sinclair.” 

The cup of dainty Sevres china Was poised half way 
to her lips, when Dorothy noticed for the flrst time the 
familiar handwriting, and the next moment the hot 
chocolate was lying in great brown spots over the for- 
get-me-not-strewn carpet, and the cup was shattered 
at her feet. 

There was but one person in all the wide world who 
wrote like that, and her hands shook so she could 
scarcely break the seal when she saw that she was 
again pursued by the relentless fate of former days. 


310 


dear Dorothy/^ the letter ran, have returned 
from the gold fields a penniless man. It was all a wild 
delusion — not a nugget to be found that would bring 
a dollar — and the two thousand you gave me the day 
I left was stolen from my j)ocket by some unprincipled 
comrade while I was asleep, and I am forced to come 
back to you for more. Meet me at the lake at ten to- 
night with five hundred dollars, and if you can not 
raise the money by that time bring some of your jew- 
els. I can pawn them for the ready cash, and you can 
say one of the servants stole them, and the old money- 
bags will buy you more, of course, after the servant 
is discharged. By the way, have you met Reggy Du- 
chene in society? He swiped all the gold out of Aus- 
tralia, and I hear that he is living like a prince in 
Washington. Don’t fail to come with the money; 
ten the hour. Devotedly your ^brother,’ J. D.” 

Miser}^, exposure and destruction were staring at her 
on all sides. The guilty young woman felt that she 
would rather die than contend for another day with 
the awful forces that were hedging her in whichever 
way she turned. 

You ask, dear reader, Avhy she did not cut loose from 
it all, make a full confession of the mistakes of her past 
and defy the rest. Ask that question of Dorothy, and 
hear what her answer will be. 

Leaving Suzanne to make the best of the spilled 
chocolate and the broken cup, she left the boudoir, 
letter in hand, to seek Miss Flaxham, the only person 
on earth to whom she could safely go for advice where 
this mysterious correspondent, brother or friend though 
he might be, was concerned. 

She rapped softly on the door, but there was no reply. 
She rapped again, still no answer, and then she turned 
the bolt, but it would not yield. Thinking that Miss 
Flaxham might be out, and remembering that the 
room was accessible by another door, Dorothy ran 
down the hall, entered another room and passed into 
Miss Flaxham’s bed-chamber through a communicat- 
ing door. 


311 

The sight that met her eyes almost froze the blood in 
her veins. Miss Flaxham was lying in the middle of 
the floor, her face drawn into the most horrible con- 
tortions, her tongue swollen to twice its normal size, 
hanging out of her mouth, the long, luxuriant hair that 
had been her pride torn and tossed around her shoul- 
ders like a maniac, her sightless eyes turned to the 
ceiling, and she — storie dead. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


THE COKONEK^S VERDICT. 

THE scream that ran through the house when Doro- 
thy saw the dearest friend she had ever known the 
victim of such a horrible death was blood-curdling in 
its broken-hearted distress, and by the time her father, 
who had first heard it, reached the room she had 
dropped to the fioor in a swoon, the fatal letter 
clutched in her hand. 

The door had to be broken open, and a single glance 
at the distorted face of the woman he had loved told 
its own story. Death by such a convulsion could only 
be brought on by one thing, and that — the shattered 
wine-glass and the bottle of sherry were sufficient 
evidence for the Doctor’s eyes. In spite of his years of 
sin and crime, he shuddered at the awful sight before 
him, and by the time the servants, rushing pellmell 
up the stairs, reached the scene of horror he, too, had 
fainted and fallen to the fioor. Was it merely thd 
sight that met his eyes, or was it the awful guilt of his 
sin-burdened conscience that caused the strong-minded 
physician to give way under such a shock and take 
recourse to woman’s privilege when grief is too se- 
vere? 

Pandemonium reigned when Mr. Sinclair at last ap- 
peared upon the scene. Suzanne was bending over her 
mistress, bathing her head with eau de cologne and 
salts to her nostrils, and alternately making 
the sign of the cross over her own heart, while old 
Becky was dashing water in the Doctor’s face and 
using every effort in her power to force a few drops of 
the amber sherry between his clenched teeth. 

The other servants stood by, mute and horror-struck, 


313 


unable to do anything until Mr. Sinclair commanded 
them to cany his wife to her chamber and the Doctor 
to his own room, while Joshua was dispatched with all 
possible haste to the cit}^ for the Coroner and Mr. Des- 
wald. 

Dorothy was unable to leave her room again that 
day, and Dr. Merlebank, Avhen, after half an hour of 
hard work, old Becky was rewarded by seeing his eyes 
open, declared that he at first thought it was his 
daughter who was dead, and tlie shock had struck him 
insensible. Of course, it was very horrible that the 
nurse should die so suddenly, but he could be recon- 
ciled to anything, so long as it had not been his only 
daughter. 

Becky started out of his room with the bottle of wine 
in her hand, and the Doctor called her back. 

Where did you find that bottle, Becky?’’ he asked. 

^ Jn de po’ nuss’ room,” replied Becky. 

^^Leave it here,” said the Doctor. think I’ll take 
a glass of it by and by.” 

The old negress was scarcely out of the room when 
he poured out a few drops of the wine, dipped the tip 
of his finger in the liquid, and put it to his lips. Why 
he should have done such a thing nobody but himself 
could be able to tell, but he immediately went to the 
stationary Avash-stand and poured the last drop of the 
sparkling wine into the basin, and watched until it had 
all flowed out of sight down the waste-pipe. 

No one could throw any light upon the mystery of 
the nurse’s death, and after the post mortem examina- 
tion the Coroner rendered a verdict of ^^Suicide by 
strychnine, taken in a glass of Avine.” 

Never, in all the twenty-five years of her varied life, 
had Dorothy been brought face to face Avith such a 
grief. She had wept until the tears would no longer 
come, and her head was aching violently, when Su- 
zanne suggested that Madame had eaten nothing since 
breakfast; would she not like a cup of tea? 

^^No, don’t mention anything to eat; food would 
choke me. Go to Mr. Sinclair and say that I desire 
to see him at once.” 


314 


With slow, measured steps the old man entered his 
wife's chamber, and in a kindly, if somewhat changed, 
tone he asked; 

''You wished to see me, Dorothy. Is there any- 
thing I can do for you?" 

Dorothy choked back the sobs and wiped two scald- 
ing tears from her eyes as she said: 

"I only wanted to know if there had been any ar- 
rangements for the — the funeral." 

"Yes," replied Mr. Sinclair; "we have secured a spot 
in Glenwood, and Miss Flaxham is to be buried at ten 
o'clock to-morrow morning. Lee has charge of the ar- 
rangements." 

The young wife burst into tears afresh. 

"Mr. Sinclair," she said, "Miss Flaxham has been the 
dearest friend of my life. She was the only mother 
I have ever known, and if my father can stand quietly 
by and see her body laid to rest among strangers in 
some obscure spot of a city's burying-ground, I can not. 
Grant me this one request, and I shall love you to my 
dying day : Let that poor woman's body be placed in the 
Sinclair vault, and if there is not room for us all in 
there I shall be content to let my last resting-place me 
in Glenwood." 

Mr. Sinclair was deeply touched by his wife's grief, 
and he brushed the tears from his eyes as he replied: 

"If possible, your request shall be granted, my dear," 
and with that he left the room. 

"There is not room, sir," said the man who had 
charge of the vault. "The place which was designed 
for your own casket is the only vacant place in the 
vault, except the space for another casket in the sarcoph- 
agus in which Miss Courtney's remains now repose. 
You know, the sarcophagus was originally prepared 
for the bodies of your elder brother and his wife, they 
desiring to be placed side by side after death, but 
going abroad they died of cholera and their bodies were 
never brought back to America." 

"Yes, yes, I remember," said the old man. "There is 
room for another casket inside the marble sarcopha- 
gus, and my poor little Margie died in Miss Flaxham's 


315 


arms. Death levels all things, and, though she was 
only a poor nurse, she was good to my grandchild, and 
she was my wife’s friend. You may prepare the sar- 
cophagus to receive her.” 

“You remember,” said the man, ^dt was sealed after 
Miss Courtney’s death, and it would now require a full 
day to chip the cement open without injuring the mar- 
ble; this alone would necessitate a day’s delay in the 
funeral.” 

^^Let the work go on,” said Mr. Sinclair, decidedly, 
and the man was forced to obey. Dr. Merlebank 
thought he had never heard of anything so preposter- 
ous. The idea of placing the body of a trained nurse, 
who had committed suicide, in a vault with the illus- 
trious Sinclairs was an absurdity he could hardly tol- 
erate. Dorothy w^as certainly losing her mind. How- 
ever, Dorothy’s word was law to James Sinclair, and 
as he was master of ^^Glymont” there was no one to 
say him nay, and so preparations went on. Mr. Des- 
wald smiled satisfactorily when he heard of the ar- 
rangement. It was of all things what pleased him 
best, and he felt a sort of secret triumph over the Doc- 
tor’s, discomfiture. Suzanne had discreetly taken care 
of the letter which Dorothy clutched in her hand at 
the time she fainted, and as the maid could not read a 
single word of English, it was perfectlv safe in her 
hands. How the disconsolate little woman longed for 
her old friend and adviser. Night was drawing nigh, 
and the man would be at the lake for his money; she 
had not even fifty dollars in her possession, much less 
five hundred, and the jewels she had would not bring 
half that amount, unless she gave up the ring which 
Reginald Dnchene had placed on her finger the day 
before, and the poor blind child swore she would die 
before letting that ever leave the hand upon which he 
had so sweetly placed it. 

She crept down to the silent, darkened drawing- 
room, as though she would seek advice of the poor, 
dead creature who had been so faithful to others, and 
had carried comfort to so many dying hearts, while 
the last agonizing moments of her own life had been 


310 


spent unclieered and alone. Why had she committed 
suicide? Dorothy asked the question over and over 
again as she looked down upon the cold, distorted face 
which kindly hands had tried in vain to restore to its 
former shape. The poor dead eyes would not close, 
and the swollen tongue still forced itself over the full 
lips whose kisses had been reserved alwavs for the 
man who, of all the world, least deserved them. Sui- 
cide ! It looked like sacrilege to apply that word to Adelle 
Flaxliam’s death. 

The scalding tears rolled dowm Dorothy’s face until 
she could bear to look no longer. Closing the door 
softly she left the room to go to Mr. Sinclair. Regard- 
less of her grief she must think of John Dumbarton’s 
peremptory note. She must ask for the money to win 
or lose. 

Laying her hand gently en the old man’s arm, she 
said : 

^^Mr. Sinclair, I have come to ask a second favor of 
you to-day.” 

“You know that you have but to ask, my dear, and if 
it In vs in my power to grant it shall be done,” 

“You are better to me than I deserve,” bending to 
kiss his cheek, and for once in her life meaning what 
she said. “I have come to ask you for five hundred 
dollars, not to use as spending money, but to give my 
profligate brother, from whom I received a letter this 
morning asking for that amount.” 

There! It was out! She had told the truth, the roof 
had not fallen in, and she was still alive. 

Mr. Sinclair uttered not a word of remonstrance, 
but went to his safe, turned the combination until 
the heavy door swung back on the hinges, and counted 
out to her the amount she desired, and as he placed 
the last note in her hand he said: 

“One sweet kiss from your lips, my wife, and I shall 
feel amply repaid.” 

Dorothy lifted her face to him and with a genuine, 
“T^muk you,” kissed him not once but a dozen times. 

Five minutes to ten that night she left the house by 
a side entrance and with as much speed as safety 


would permit made her way to the lake, now frozen 
to a solid sheet of ice. John Dumbarton was already 
there and Dorothy felt a strange thrill at her heart as 
he came toward her, a thrill which she had felt but 
once before in her life, and that when Reginald Du- 
chene had placed the strange old ring upon her linger. 

With the most complacent sang froid and show of 
proprietorship he took her in his arms and held her to 
his breast in a long and lover-like embrace. 

^^Will you not give me one kiss of welcome, Dorothy, 
after my journey to the antipodes?’’ 

^^No,” replied Dorothy; have no patience with 
such sentimental nonsense. Kissing is only fit for 
babies and half-witted lovers. Thank Heaven I belong 
to neither class.” 

‘‘You were not always so devoid of sentiment, Dor- 
othy; what has wrought the change?” 

“Wisdom,” replied Dorothy sagely. “At one time 
I was like all girls are at some time or other in their 
lives. I had my head chuck full of silly love-story 
romances and dime-novel nonsense, and was foolish 
enough to think that people could live on ‘bread and 
cheese and kisses,’ but such illusions rarely last until 
twenty-five. One realizes by that time that the ruler 
of this world and the promoter of one’s chief happi- 
ness is gold.” 

“And yet it has failed to make you happy,” said her 
companion. 

“That is because I did not realize its power sooner. 
The greatest mistake of my life dates back to the day 
I consented to ignore it.” 

“Was that less your fault than mine, Dorothy?” 

“It matters little whose fault it was,” replied Dor- 
othy; “grieving over spilt milk never brings it back. 
Here is the five hundred dollars I have brought you; 
take it, and do leave me in peace a little while.” 

“Thanks, my sweet one, I shall certainly do so. In 
the meantime you are not to fall too deeply in love 
with Reginald Duchene. That smoothly-kept beard 
of his hides a great many cruel lines that otherwise 
would be plainly visible, and I have a fancy he will 


318 


try to win my little Dorothy away from me if he gets 
a chance.’’ 

^^You have a great many fancies that are extremely 
foolish,” said Dorothy, ^^and you do a great deal of 
meddling where you are not concerned. Keginald 
Diichene may be a married man for all I know or 
care.” 

A sinister smile played around the lips of the man 
who stood alone in the winter starlight as her figure 
vanished through the portals of ^^Glymont,” and there 
wa« a mocking intonation in his voice as he chuckled: 

^^Fe laughs best who laughs last; fair woman, be- 
ware !” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


A STAKTLING DISCOVERY. 

NOTHING could have pleased Mr. Deswald better 
than the Barones challenge to a duel. It was just the 
opportunity for which he had waited ever since his re- 
turn from Paris. Upon reaching his office after leav- 
ing ‘^Glyniont/^ the morning of his altercation with 
Von Floville, he indited a letter to some person with 
whom he was evidently on very friendly terms, for he 
smiled over it from start to finish, and, perhaps, our 
curious eyes will open a trifie wider when we glance 
over his shoulder and see that it is addressed to our 
friend, Mr. Valwin, Belton, New Hampshire. The con- 
tents of the letter, though they would be extremely in- 
teresting to us, will by no means decrease in interest 
if we leave them to be read first by Mr. Valwin. 

At three o’clock that afternoon Mr. Deswald received 
a note from Dr. Merlebank, stating that he had been 
chosen as second to Baron Stanley Von Floville, for a 
duel which was to be fought at a point designated on 
the Bladensburg road, promptly at six o’clock Thurs- 
day morning. Weapons, pistols. 

Mr. Deswald replied that he would be there on time, 
with his old and honored friend, Mr. Spence, whom we 
remember as connected with the tracing of the great 
pension fraud, in which Jack Dumbarton won his laur- 
els as a lawyer, as second. 

The Baron shook . in every limb when Dr. Merle- 
bank handed him the reply. From the first moment 
that he had uttered the wild words he had hoped Mr. 
Deswald would back out. Fighting duels was cer- 
tainly not the Baron’s hobby, and at the last moment 
he certainly repented of his haste in challenging the 


320 


lawyer. Dr. Merlebank was delighted that everything 
should have turned out so well for him. Once he could 
get Mr. Deswald out of the way he felt that he could 
manage Yon Floville. He knew Yon Floville to be an 
excellent shot, and it was his earnest desire that Mr. 
Deswald should be killed. Mr. Deswald treated the 
whole matter as an immense joke. Mr. Spence looked 
serious and declared it was a very, very unfortunate 
a If air, begging the lawyer to withdraw from such a 
barbarous contract and let the hot-headed German 
alone, but Mr. Deswald only answered him by a smile 
and pursued his preparations. 

When questioned in regard to the disposition he 
wished made of his property in case the worst hap- 
pened, he simply stated that his affairs were all in 
proper shape and would adjust themselves, and Mr. 
Spence again chided him for deliberately throwing his 
life away, declaring this crowning act of his madness 
was nothing more nor less than suicide. 

The office of Deswald & Dumbarton w^as open until a 
very late hour Wednesday night, and the train from New 
York, reaching Washington at9.30,hadon board three 
passengers who immediately made their way to this 
place. Itwas wonderful howrapidly Mr. Yalwin walked 
up the brilliantly lighted Avenue, never once thinking 
to step to the swiftly-going cable cars that passed right 
by the office door. His step was as quick and elastic 
as a man of twenty-five, and his two companions found 
it hard to keep pace with his rapid strides. His wife 
complained that she had never seen him in such a hur- 
ry; and the young man whom we recognize for the first 
time as the drayman who hauled the trunk of cancers 
and deformed limbs out of New York city and buried 
it for Stanley Yon Floville, drew back as an act of gal- 
lantry to offer his arm to the feeble old woman. Just 
why these three persons should be called to Washing- 
ton at this particular time appears rather singular. At 
any rate they found a warm welcome awaiting them 
in the lawyer’s office, and later an excellent supper at 
one of the leading hotels. 

Promptly at six o’clock the following morning Mr. 


321 


Deswald and Mr. Spence alighted from a carriage at 
the point designated by Dr. Merlebank, and a few sec- 
onds later a second carriage drove up and from it 
sprang Dr. Merlebank and Baron Von Floville. 

Mr. Spence and the Doctor shook hands, examined 
the pistols, took their positions, and the two oppon- 
ents stationed themselves half a dozen paces apart. 

^‘Eeady — one, tAvo — ’’ 

The gallop of a horse directly in front of the two 
men caused the second to pause and then, Avithout a 
Avord of Avarning, Jhe rider sprang from the saddle, 
and, catching Baron Von FloAdlle in a Adse-like grip, 
sard in a commanding voice: 

^^Stanley Von Floville, I arrest you in the name of 
the law.’’ 

^^What the devil do you mean?” shouted Von Flo- 
ville. 

mean that you are this moment under arrest and 
will be held in custody until a certain trunk, said to 
contain cancers, deformed limbs, and so forth, can be 
examined by the authorities.” 

Von Floville turned Avhite to the lips. 

^^You are a fool!” he exclaimed, making a desperate 
effort to free himself ere the handcuffs Avere fastened 
on his wrists. 

ranting that I am a fool, you will accompany me 
back to New York to answer the charge brought 
against you.” 

^‘Who dares to bring any charge against me, a titled 
gentleman?” shouted the Baron. 

do,” said a man who had just appeared upon the 
scene, and Stanley Von FloAulle turned to face the ac- 
cusing drayman. 

Mr. Deswald turned away Avith a satisfied smile, 
handed his pistol to Mr. Spence and both men re-en- 
tered the carriage and were driven back to the city, 
half an hour before the train bearing Stanley Von 
Floville back to the scene of his crime left the sta- 
tion. 

Through every moment of his five hours’ ride to Noav 

11 


322 


York tlie Baron cursed himself for liis folly in ever 
having made an enemy of Deswald, but as is too 
late to lock the stable when the steed is stolen/’ so it 
was too late to repent of his madness, and the guilty 
was now to suffer for his crimes. The lawyer hurried 
through his breakfast in order to reach ^^Glymont” in 
time to be present at the funeral of Miss Flaxham. 
There was yet another point he wished to score, and to 
be too late at the funeral meant to lose all. 

The solemn services were just begun when, with 
bared head and noiseless steps, he. entered the draw- 
ing-room and took his seat among the pall-bearers — 
having himself offered to act as one. 

Dorothy stood next the casket while the impressive 
words were being read, and wept through the entire 
service as though her heart would break, while her 
father opposite her kept his eyes fixed steadily upon 
the floor, and neither by look nor sound betrayed the 
slightest emotion. In fact the Doctor’s mind was on 
the strange scene he had witnessed a few hours before, 
and was vaguely wondering what Von Floville had 
done to have the New York detectives after him. He 
was so absorbed with his own thoughts that he did 
not notice old Mr. Valwin bend over the casket and 
take a last look at the dead woman when the services 
were over. Mr. Valwin wanted to satisfy himself that 
Miss Flaxham and the woman he had known as Mrs. 
Garrison were one and the same, but the distorted 
features he saw defied recognition, and he turned away 
with a shudder. 

The cortege moved slowly toward the gloomy old vault 
which no one ever dreamed would be Adelle Flaxham’s 
last resting-place, and after the pall-bearers had lifted 
the casket to its place in the white marble sarcophagus 
Mr. Deswald begged of Mr. Sinclair permission to look 
into the other casket and view for the last time the 
face of the fair young girl who had been as a daughter 
to him. Mr. Sinclair thought it a most unprecedented 
desire, but he gave his permission, and the faded 
wreaths were removed from the beveled glass breast- 
plate, and for a full minute the old lawyer looked down 


323 


upon a sight which, though it was what he had ex- 
pected^ startled him when brought face to face with 
the truth. He turned the flowers back, waited until 
the last of Miss Flaxham’s small concourse of friends 
had returned to the house, and taking the key from 
the keeper’s hand, locked the massive iron door and 
placed the key in his pocket. 

Dr. Merlebank watched his movements like a ferret, 
feeling a mortal dread that, like Von Floville, he too 
would soon be in the hands of the law, though he had 
not the remotest idea that they would both be held for 
similar crimes. 

Mr. Deswald returned to the city with Mr. Valwin, 
and no one thought very much more about him, until 
he rode over to ^^Glymont” at sunset and requested Mr. 
Sinclair to furnish him lodging for the night. 

Of course the request was readily granted and old 
Becky went to sleep that night with a ten-dollar gold 
piece tucked under her pillovv" for preparing a room for 
him communicating with the one in which Miss Flax- 
ham had died. The shrewd law^w had plans of his 
own, though he retired earl^^ and had his room in 
Egyptian darkness when the members of the house- 
liold came up to their respective apartments, but far 
into the night when every one else was fast asleep he 
entered the dead woman’s chamber and began his 
search for he knew not what. Not a single article had 
been moved since she was carried out, and the little 
leather-bound trunk which held the secret of her life 
was still securely locked. The plain black dress which 
she had last worn was thrown across the back of a 
chair, as if it had just been laid aside, and it was in 
the pocket of this dress that he found a bunch of keys, 
and after trying half a dozen or more in the intricate 
brass lock, he hit upon the right one, and the old-fash- 
ioned spring flew open and before his eager eyes the 
mystery of the trained nurse’s life lay like a book be- 
fore him waiting to be read. The first thing he gave 
particular notice was a bundle of papers, yellow with 
age and tied with a faded blue ribbon, which looked 
as though it had not been touched for years. 


324 


Extracting a letter from the bundle he saw that it 
was mailed in Leicester, England, and addressed to 
Mrs. Adelle May Flaxham. The date was somewhat 
blurred, but as well as he could make it out it read, 
June 24, 1876. Curiosity prompted him to go still 
furtlier and read the letter, and as we are equally as 
much interested in its contents as the lawyer could 
possibly be, we will also take a peep at the old-fash- 
ioned chirography : 

‘‘My Dear Mrs. Flaxham: — ’’ the letter ran, “I am 
in receipt of yonrs of tlie 14th iust., and words can not 
express my gratitude to you for the kindness you have 
bestowed upon my little girl, my darling little moth- 
erless Dorothy, and I suj)pose I may as well speak now 
as another time of the subject which has been upper- 
most in my mind since I first saw you, and set my 
doubting heart at rest. I am rather an old man, Mrs. 
Flaxham, to be thinking of marrying again, and I have 
tried to put the subject out of my mind for several 
weeks, fearing that you would not look favorably upon 
my suit, but 1 find that my love, like Banquo’s ghost, 
will not be downed, and I now write to ask you to be- 
come my wife. I am not a man of many words, so I 
can not propose to you after the approved style, but 
I can promise you a life-time of devotion, and I be- 
seech you to answer me at an early date. In the mean- 
time believe me to be, 

“Your ardent admirer, 

“Jeremiah Merlebank.’’ 

“It is just as I thought,’’ muttered the lawyer, as he 
thrust the letter back in tlie torn envelope and re- 
turned it to the package, and as he did not tell what 
he did think, we must remain in doubt as to the con- 
clusion he had reached uiitil another time. 

The next thing he took up was a heavy volume 
bound in Bussia leather and fastened with a lock of 
gold, on which appeared in blue enamel: 

“DIABY OF A. M. F., 1876.” 

“Jerry’s Gift.” 


325 


A small key attached to the bunch he had found in 
the dress pocket unlocked the diary which was to tell 
the strange history of the woman whose life had been 
as much a mystery as her death, but it was not for the 
purpose of prying into secrets that Mr. Deswald en- 
tered this holy of holies which had been so carefully 
guarded all these years. It was solely for the purpose 
of learning something of the two, Dr. Merlebank and 
his daughter, wuth whom he had to deal. What he 
learned of Adelle Flaxham could never harm her now. 

He read the first entry in the diary. 

‘^Jan 1. — My beautiful, dark-eyed baby, whose father 
died before she opened her eyes to this v/orld, is just 
one month old to-day, and, wonder of wonders, as 1 
was putting the finishing touches to the wee maid’s 
dainty toilet this morning Jessica, her nurse, rushed 
breathlessly into our room to say that our next-door 
neighbor, Mrs. Merlebank, had just died, leaving a little 
daughter only a few hours old, and the Doctor was 
now at the door asking if I would take care of the 
little one until further arrangements could be made. 
As if any mother could deny protection to such a help- 
less little creature. Of course I took her in, and will 
care for her as I do my own.” 

^‘Jan. 2. — Mrs. Merlebank was buried to-day and the 
Doctor has just been over (that is her husband, how 
foolish not to mention it before), to make arrange- 
ments with me to keep her. He is to pay me twenty 
dollars a month for my trouble. How fortunate! I 
shall save every dollar of it to educate my own little 
cherub. My little Grace. It’s rather singular that 
both of the babies have hair and eyes alike, and both 
so near of an age, should be so strangely bereft, mine 
of a father, his of a mother, and both so frail.” 

Mr. Deswald paused to read no more, but closed the 
volume, returned it to the trunk, gave a low tap on the 
window, which was answered by the dusky face of 
Joshua, and in the silent hour of midnight the old law- 
yer and the young negro took from the room the leath- 
er-bound trunk, carried it across the grounds to a spot 


where it might be safeh^ hidden until morning, and, 
while Joshua, wrapped in a heavy fur overcoat be- 
longing to the lawyer, stood guard over the stolen 
treasure, Mr. Deswald went back to the house, crept 
noiselessly to his room, and the next morning when 
the bell rang for nine o’clock breakfast he emerged, 
looking as fresh as though no wink of sleep had es- 
caped his eyes that night. 

His first step after breakfast was to reveal to Mr. 
Sinclair a part of the startling discovery he had made 
the day previous, and requesting the old man to ac- 
company him to the vault, he unlocked the door, and 
while the heavy marble slab which was left off for the 
first tAventy-four hours after placing a body in the 
sarcox>hagus was still tilted against the outer wall, 
he pushed aside the flowers that for nearly a year had 
been hidden from sight, and supposed to rest over Mar- 
guerite Courtney’s breast, and invited Mr. Sinclair to 
look. 

The old man brushed the tears from his eyes and 
bent to see — an empty casket. 

With the single word ^‘body-snatchers, ” he dropped 
to the floor of the vault, limp and insensible. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


MR. DESWALD TAKES A NEW FLIGHT. 

WHEN the lawyer saw the effect this strange revel- 
ation had upon the old man he knew that he did not 
understand his purpose in bringing him to the vault. 

Summoning old Peter to his assistance he carried 
his friend back to the house and applied restoratives 
until he was rewarded by seeing the closed eyes open, 
and Mr. Sinclair once more return to consciousness. 

^^My God, oh, my God, Deswald, this is terrible. My 
beautiful granddaughter the victim of such a fate!’’ 

‘^Calm yourself, Mr. Sinclair, and listen to me,” said 
Mr. Deswald. fear I have been a little too precipi- 
tate in revealing to you mv discovery, but I assure you 
there is no cause for such distress. You have been 
duped by a band of the greatest villains it has ever 
been 1113’^ lot to meet, villains who have shared your 
hospitality, sat at your table, and been ^mur honored 
guests, only to turn like a serpent and sting the hand 
that trusted them. Only keep quiet. Let no one know 
we have made this discovery, and I promise you that 
more startling things shall yet be revealed.” 

Mr. Sinclair yielded to the law^^er with the submis- 
sive trust of a child, and from that hour he had full 
access to ^^Glymont” day or night. 

Whether Dr. Merlebank surmised the truth or not 
we are unable to say, but of one thing we are certain, 
early on the morning following Miss Flaxham’s fu- 
neral he drove over to the city, and upon his return he 
informed Dorothy that he had been suddenly called 
awmv and would leave on the three p. m. train for New 
York. 

Mr. Deswald learned this at luncheon and he under- 


328 


stopd quite well that the Doctor’s destination would 
be the little way-station up in the hills of isew Hamp- 
shire, but our Mend Mr. V'alwin was already on his 
way there, so it made little difference how soon the 
Doctor took his departure. 

The hearing of Baron Yon Floville’s case had been 
fixed for the first of January, and all New York was 
on the qui vive for any news connected with the strange 
story Avhich, in spite of the caution practiced by the 
detectives, had leaked out somehow. It was not every 
day that a great Baron was charged with a crime and 
locked behind prison bars, as this one had been. 

Dorothy did not know whether to feel glad or sorry 
for his misfortune. With his absence she was cer- 
tainly rid of an intolerable nuisance, but there were 
times when she felt that his advice would have been 
worth a great deal to her. The Baron out of the way, 
and her father gone, she had the field practically to 
herself, and she determined to make the best of her 
opportunities. Of course Miss Flaxham’s untimely 
death had made her very sad, but ^Txlymont” could 
not be turned into a house of mourning for the sake of 
a ^Tiired nurse,” as her father had termed the dead 
woman,, and invitations ;‘came and went just as though 
no such horrible event had ever broken into the 
beauty’s gay life. 

She had seen nothing of John Dumbarton since the 
night she had given him five hundred dollars at the 
lake, and a note from him announced his intention of 
embarking on a vessel bound for Borneo, an announce- 
ment which filled her with the greatest satisfaction. 
She could never feel quite easy in accepting Reginald 
Duchene’s attentions while his sinister face was lurk- 
ing near and liable to break in upon her at any mo- 
ment. 

Again we will ask the question, what has she to fear 
from this man? 

The little schemer had learned that her safest 
chance in regard to Mr. Sinclair’s money was to keep 
on friendly terms with Mr. Deswald, and it was re- 


829 


markable bow often she found occasion to invite him 
to ^‘Glvmont/’ 

The shrewd old lawyer kept his eyes open and very 
seldom refused an invitation from her, though he often 
had to cancel engagements elsewhere. 

To his young wife Mr. Sinclair was the same de- 
voted, fatherly old man he had been from the very 
first day of their wedded lives, but a practiced eye 
could soon have discovered that his vision w^as not so 
blind to her duplicity as it had once been. She had 
her own way in everything, spent his money as she 
chose and turned the old home into a very center of 
gayety, wdiile the strangely-duped old man took the 
lawyer’s advice and — waited. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen became a fixture at ^^Glymont,” 
and the two women vied in their efforts to please lleg- 
inald Duchene. 

It w^as less than a week after Miss Flaxham’s death 
that she and Dorothy were seated before a blazing 
wood fire in a private sitting room when Mrs. Van 
Kelpen crossed her hands nervously and asked: 

^^My dear IVfrs. Sinclair, is it possible that you are 
in love with your doting old husband?” 

^Gn love?” echoed Dorothy. “I assure you, Mrs. Van 
Kelpen, wdien I am so foolish as to fall in love wdth any 
man it w ill not be with a modern Methuselah. I tol- 
erate the old fool for what I hope to gain b}^ such diffi- 
cult forbearance, but I could honestly say I’d be glad 
to see him die to-day.” 

Mrs. Van Kelpen looked intelligent. 

^^That could be managed easy enough, my dear. 
Why not get your gifted father to prepare something 
that would send the dear old patriarch to heaven, and 
at the same time leave you free?” 

Dorothy looked up in horror! Could it be possible 
that this woman suspected the awful guilt that lay 
like a mountain weight upon her soul? 

^^Oh, don’t look so horrified, Mrs Sinclair. I assure 
you I am not the least bit dangerous, though I do make 
"such awful suggestions. I pity you, dear. Keally, I 
do. It w^as once my misfortune to be married to an 


330 


old man, and I know what a lonesome existence it is. 
Simply a gilded misery, that is all, and no one knows 
what a banner of hope a crepe veil is until they wear 
it in the celebration of their freedom from such thrall- 
dom. Whenever I get despondent now I take my veil 
out and look at it to remind myself that though I may 
have trials now, they are trials of freedom, as that 
black banner indicates/’ 

Dorothy laughed outright at her friend’s original 
remarks. 

^^How long has your husband been dead?” she 
asked. 

^‘Three years,” replied Mrs. Van Kelpen, ^^three 
blissful years, and I tell you, Mrs. Sinclair, I would not 
be married again, always providing that my money 
holds out, to the very best man on earth.” 

^^Not even to our charming lleggie?” queried Dor- 
othy. 

^^Not even to our charming Reggie,” replied Mrs. 
Van Kelpen, ^^and indeed, my dear, our charming 
Reggie wants no one but your matchless self. I never 
saw a man more completely and hopelessly infatu- 
ated.” 

^^That is because he is a very foolish fellow and al- 
lows his heart to get the better of his head,” said Dor- 
othy sagely. ^MTe knows my fortune is already made, 
and can not be altered.” 

^^Mark my words, Mrs. Sinclair, you will be married 
to Reginald Duchene in less than six months,” said 
Mrs. Van Kelpen. ^There! the foolish fellow is this 
minute coming up the walk,” and, in direct corrobor- 
ation of her words old Peter thrust his snowy head in 
the door and announced, ‘^Mr. Reginald Duchene,” and 
the next moment the tall, debonair young man was 
bowing before them. 

^^Really, ladies, this is charming. I scarcely dared 
hope to find both the fair queens of society at 'Gly- 
mont,’ and yet, what spot so fitting as an abiding- 
place for their glorious majesties?” 

Dorothy wheeled forward a great Pasy chair, and 
the subject of their recent conversation dropped Ian- 


331 


guidly into its cushioned depth, slowly drawing his 
gloves from a pair of femininely soft white hands, 
talking the while of the weather, the latest social func- 
tion, and the thousand and one things that indolent 
people usually find to talk about, and which would in- 
terest no person but themselves, and which they oft- 
times only fancy themselves interested in. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen discreetly took her leave shortly 
after the young man’s arrival, and when Dorothy ac- 
companied her to the door she whispered softly: 
^‘Don’t let him blind you too much with the glamour of 
his love, my dear. It is only an illusion after all, as 
you shall learn by the time you are as old as I am. The 
only abiding love is the love of self.” With that and 
a hurried kiss on Dorothy’s blushing cheek she was 
gone, and the young wife of James Sinclair returned 
to the presence of her lover to listen to one of the wild- 
est propositions ever whispered in woman’s ear. 

But as there are other matters of greater importance 
to us at present we will leave their love-making to be 
told in another chapter, and return to Mr. Deswald, 
who is at this moment on the way to ^^Glymont” to 
say farewell to his old friend before starting on another 
long journey. 

To Avhat point or for what purpose he is to leave . 
Washington he will confide to no one, simply replying 
to all inquiries that he has been suddenly called away 
upon business of importance, and may not return for 
several weeks. 11 is parting words to Mr. Sinclair 
sounded rather singular, but as we know the shrewd 
old lawyer never wastes advice, we may be certain 
that he had some particular point in view when he 
said: 

^^Give Mrs. Sinclair all the money she wants and let 
her have carte hlanche to do as she pleases until my re- 
turn.” 

Dorothy flashed him a grateful smile and murmured 
sweetly: 

‘W^ou are exceedingly kind, Mr. Deswald, to think 
of my pleasure, and I am sure there is no one whose 
word wdll have more influence over my husband than 


332 


yourself. I already begin to anticipate a glorious 
time.^’ 

Mr. Sinclair was not so dense. He understood his 
friend, and in the days that followed remained true 
to his advice, though at times it almost threatened 
the loss of his fortune. 

When Mr. Deswald left Washington he took the 
north-bound train for New York, and upon his arrival 
there presented himself at the office of Supt. Byrnes 
and requested the services of that detective in prepar- 
ing for him the most complete disguise possible. The 
chief detective, who had known the lawyer for years, 
invited him into a small room, dignified by the name 
of ^^studio,’’ though it looked much more like the store- 
room of a second-hand clothing house. There were 
suits of clothes hanging in every available space of 
every color, size and style, from the blue demin over- 
alls of the engineer, and the old Kentucky jeans trous- 
ers of the farmer, to the latest make of swallow-tail 
dress suits, and seal overcoats. A full-length mirror 
occupied one corner and before it sat a table on which 
were ranged paints, brushes, burnt cork, wigs, mus- 
taches, and false teeth of every make and kind. 

The detective wheeled his man around before the 
one window of the room and sized him up at a glance. 

^H'hat mustache will have to go,’’ he said, and at his 
suggestion the lawyer dropped into a chair from which 
he arose five minutes later as clean-faced as a boy of 
sixteen. 

Two hours from the time he entered the office a dap- 
per youth, with a complexion as soft and fair as a 
woman’s, with just the faintest suggestion of a pale, 
blonde mustache, and short crisp curls of golen hair, 
wearing a brown tweed suit and heavy chinchilla over- 
coat, strolled leisurely down Broadway with a kodak 
tucked under his arm, and a gold-headed cane, held 
squarely in the middle, swinging in his right hand. 

He was English, ^‘don’t you know,” and had evi- 
dently arrived on the last boat, determined to photo- 
graph the United States from Canada to the Gulf, from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific. New York certainly could 


333 


not have come up to his expectations, for he made his 
way straight to the Union depot and purchased a 
ticket for — Belton, New Hampshire. The youth had 
certainly gone daft! The bare idea of an Englishman 
expecting to find anything to interest him at an ob- 
scure little way-station among the hills of New Hamp- 
shire, in the dead of winter! 

Joe Berkely had been station-master there for 
twenty years, and there has never been a tourist in ten 
miles of the place, to his recollection, even in summer, 
and sensible Americans shunned the place at this season 
of the year. 


CHAPTER XL. 


A SURPRISE FOR MR. STACY CALHOUN. 

THE station-master pushed his chair back over the 
rough boards of the platform, shook the ashes from his 
pipe, put it in his pocket, and strolled down the walk 
to meet the train that slowed up to drop the mail and 
let off any person who might desire to stop overnight 
at the deserted little town. Visitors were so rare at 
this time of the year that he was astonished to see the 
well-dressed youth swing himself from the passenger 
coach and walk leisurely toward him. The fact that 
a man was a stranger never kept Joe Berkely from ad- 
dressing him, and as Mr. Stacy Calhoun paused a few 
paces from him he doffed his slouched hat and said 
cordially, ‘‘How dVe do, sir?^’ 

Mr. Calhoun smiled under cover of his blonde mus 
tache. 

“How dVe do?’’ he replied. “Can you tell me the 
Tvay to an hotel?” 

Joe Berkely broke into a fit of roaring laughter. 

“Lord bless you, man, they ain’t a hotel at this God- 
forsaken place. We don’t need none. Ain’t been a 
man to stay over night here for six years, that I 1 nows 
of, an’ I’ve been boss of this here place,” indicating 
with a broad sweep of his hand the one-room affair 
that did service for depot, post office, and freight-room 
combined, “for nigh on to twenty years. You might 
coax the telegraph operator over there to let you bunk 
with him. That’s the nearest direction I can give you 
to a hotel. Old Mrs Blixton, ’cross the common there, 
where you see them clothes hangin’ out, sells ‘snacks;’ 
if you feel hungry you might call on her.” 


335 


^‘Tliank you/’ replied Mr. Callioiin; then, surveying 
the desolate-looking surroundings, he added: 

‘‘I fear I have made a mistake in coming here at 
this season. You see, I am an artist, and I wished to 
get some pictures of winter scenery in New Hampshire 
to take back to England with me.” 

“You be an artist?” queried Joe Berkely. “Then, for 
the Lord’s sake. Mister, take my picture. I ain’t had 
a chance to git my beauty struck since I hit Belton, an’ 
my poor old mother is dying to see me, or something 
that looks like me. Here I am. Now, let her go, Gal- 
lagher!” and at that he struck an attitude that Avould 
have done credit to a clown or the funny man at a the- 
atre. 

“I’ll certainly take your picture at another time,” 
said Mr. Calhoun, hardly able to repress his mirth; 
“but my camera requires some fixing up, and would 
not work at present.” 

“Oh, that’s so,” replied Joe. “I forgot you’d have 
to have the thing set up on three sticks, with a black 
cloth over one end of it. Have a seat?” 

“Thanks. There, that is too bad. I thought I’d 
give you my card, but I really believe I have lost my 
card-case, and have not another one about me. How- 
ever, my name is Calhoun — Stacy Calhoun, of London, 
England.” 

Joe Berkely grasped his hand. 

“How d’ye do, Mr. Calhoun? I’m pleased to meet 
you. My name is Berkely — eloe Berkely — and I come 
from Concord, New Hampshire. Never was out of the 
State in my life, and I’ll be forty years old, come the 
fourteenth of next February. My father was a full- 
blooded Englishman. Confound if I ain’t glad to see 
a man from the old country.” 

“I suppose you are pretty well acquainted with this 
part of the country,” said Mr. Calhoun. 

“Know every pig-path in forty miles of here,” re- 
plied Mr. Berkely. 

“Then perhaps you can tell me if there is a family 
living anywhere near here called Oberly?” 

“Beckon I can tell you ’bout the Oberlys,” responded 


336 


the station-master. ''They did live up at the farm 
five miles west of here, but the last mother's son of 
'em, and daughter, too, for that matter, died with the 
typhoid fever two ^ears ago." 

"Is it possible?" murmured Mr. Calhoun. "They 
owned a farm, did they not?" 

"Well, I should say they did. As fine a farm as 
you'll find in New Hampshire; but there's been a sight 
of changes since they died. The house is turned into 
a lunatick asylum now, and they've got people up there 
as crazy as June-bugs." 

"I haVe heard that their home was a very picturesque 
place," said Mr. Calhoun, absently. 

"Well, some folks might think so, but for my part 
I ain't never been able to see no picture 'bout a place 
painted a blood crimson, with black winders, and yaller 
signs hung up over the door." 

"Well, no; that description would not give one an 
idea of the picturesque. It must have a queer-minded 
proprietor to want a house painted such a glaring 
color." 

"Queer? Well, you've struck the nail on the head, 
Mr. Calhoun. I think he must be the queerest mortal 
bein' that ever trod shoe leather. It makes me dizzy 
to have him look at me. Tm alius expecting to see 
lightning flash from his eyes, they're so piercin'; still, 
the folks 'round here think he's pretty clever; pays 
well for all he gets, and sticks to his business mindin' 
the lun^^s." 

"Do you think I could manage to get over there to- 
day?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "My time is about up, and 
I'll have to hurry if I get the picture of that place be- 
fore I leave here." 

"You can manage to get there if you'll walk it 
through five miles of snow," replied Mr. Berkely. 
They ain't a boss to be had nowhere 'bout here, except 
Tim Mooney's, and he's that confounded particular 
that he won't let the brute out of the stable sich weath- 
er as this. Pets him like he was folks. I am sorry 
I can't let you have one, but my boss took distemper 
and died last fall. Great Scot! how time does fly! It 


337 


don’t seem like it’s been more’n a month since that hoss 
took sick, and here it is pretty nigh Christmas.” 

Which direction do you go to reach the farm?” 
asked the stranger. 

‘‘Straight up that waggin road there till you get to 
the cross-roads, then turn to the left,” said Mr. Berk- 
ely; “but if you’ll take ni}^ advice, Mr. Calhoun, you’ll 
wait till to-morrow. ’Tain’t long till night nov/, and 
you might get lost and freeze to death before anybody 
would find you. Still, that’s a pretty warm overcoat 
you’ve got on; but you’ll ruin your shoes — take every 
bit the shine off of ’em in the snow. Talking ’bout 
shoes, they’re the slickest I ever saw. Confound if I 
haven’t worked half the day a many a Sunday, when T 
was goin’ to see old man Jackson’s daughter, tryin’ to 
git mine to shine like that, and the more I’d spit and 
brush the dimmer they’d git. How do you do it, any- 
how?” 

Mr. Calhoun explained that his shoes were patent 
leather and did not require shining, whereupon the 
station-master declared he’d have a pair of them if it 
cost him three dollars, and, finding that he could not 
persuade the stranger to stay overnight and “bunk” 
with the telegraph operator, he wished him Godspeed 
and watched until he disappeared from sight around a 
curve in the road. 

It may be well to add that Mr. Calhoun, as soon as 
he was out of sight of the station-master’s watchful 
eye, extracted a pair of arctic rubbers from his “ko- 
dak,” and, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree, 
drew them over Ids shining patent leathers. 

True to Joe Berkely’s prophec^q the walk through 
the snow to Oberly’s farm proved a tiresome under- 
taking, and the young “Englishman” was treated to 
the view of “a sunset in the New Hampshire hills” 
before he saw the great red-painted sanitarium loom 
up before him in the gathering twilight. It was too 
dark for him to read the great yellow sign that hung 
over the door as he gave the old-fashioned knocker a 
pull and set the echoes ringing through the house. 


338 


^^Cau I see the gentleman of the house/^ he asked of 
the trim little maid who answered his summons. 

“1 will see. \\ alk into the parlor, sir.’’ 

A glowing fire was burning in the open fireplace 
and chairs were scattered around the hearth, as though 
a family had just left the room in which the young 
man was ushered, and as he seated himself in one of 
the comfortable rockers before the grateful warmth of 
the blaze, a gentleman of magnificent physique and 
commanding stature entered the doorway. 

‘A"ou wished to see me, sir?” 

The voice Avas Ioav, pleasant, and well modulated, 
yet ghung one the impression that its owner was ac- 
customed to command. 

The young man arose. 

“I beg j)ardon, sir, for interrupting you at this hour; 
but I am a stranger in these parts and have lost my 
way among the hills, and desire to know if you can 
furnish me supper and lodging for the night.” 

Dr. Garrison laughed good-naturedly as he replied: 

^‘Being a stranger, sir, I fear you do not know AA'hat 
sort of place it is in Avhich you are asking lodging. 
This house is not what it appears to be, an hotel, but 
an insane asylum. HoAvever, if you care to cast your 
lot among lunatics for the night, you are AA^elcome.” 

“Many thanks for your hospitality, sir. I assure you 
I am not in the least timid about such things.” 

“Very well,” said Dr. Garrison; “we Avere just seat- 
ing ourselves to supper when you came. Clarice will 
shoAv you to a room, and after you have made yourself 
comfortable she Avill show you to the dining-room. 
Come, Clarice, shoAv this gentleman up to the room 
that Miss Ftaxham occupied.” 

“Unfortunately, I liaA^e lost my card-case,” said the 
young man. “However, my name is Calhoun — Stacy 
Calhoun — and I am a tourist from London.” 

The doctor drew forth one of his OAvn cards and gave 
it to Mr. Calhoun, who read, “Charles Y. Garrison, 
M. D.,” and the two shook hands. 

Dr. Garrison Avas by no means a suspicious man, 
or he would certainly not have been so ready to take in 


339 


a stranger for the night; and, as suspecting persons 
are usually persons who have some cause to fear de- 
tection, we are forced to return to onr first opinion 
that Dr. Garrison has been a man more sinned against 
than sinning. 

When our young friend descended to the dining- 
room he was introduced to three persons — Mrs. Staf- 
ford, who presided over the table; her brother, Mr. 
Hilburn, and old Mr. Valwin. If he looked in vain 
for another face no one was the wiser. 

If there was the slightest sign of dementia in any 
person present he could not detect it. Of course, we 
understand that Mr. Valwin is all right, but indica- 
tions would show" that Mrs Stafford and her brother 
are also much improved since last w^e saw" them. 

The evening passed pleasantly enough, and Dr. Gar- 
rison gave the signal to retire, good-nights were ex- 
changed and all w"ent to their rooms Avith something 
to think of till SAveet sleep hushed the voices of the 
brain with her Lethean power. 

Stacy Calhoun did not retire at once. He had failed 
to accomplish that w"hich had been his object in com- 
ing to the ^^Home Sanitarium,’’ and that w"as to learn 
the Avhereabouts of Daisy Stafford. The young lady’s 
mother had told him that her daughter Avas on a visit 
to a friend in Boston, to remain until the holidays 
were over, after AA^hich they all intended returning to 
their home in Western New York. Her Avords had a 
mechanical ring, and the young man could not recon- 
cile himself to the belief that she kneAV Avhat she Avas 
saying at the time they w^ere uttered. 

The room assigned to him for the night had appar- 
ently had no fire in it for several Aveeks, and as he dreAV 
his chair nearer the hearth his eye fell upon a scrap 
of paper lying to one side of the glowing embers, which 
had been "kindled for his comfort, and upon examina- 
tion he saAv that it was a part of a torn letter, and the 
words upon it — 

‘Washington, D. C., Sept. 12, 18 — . 

“My Dear W— ” 


340 


At this letter the word was torn off, and all search 
for the scrap which would have supplied the missing 
word proved futile; but he could have sworn that the 
handwriting was Dr. Merlebank^s. Why our young- 
friend should have turned out the light and sat up in 
the dark for fully an hour we, at ten o^clock, would 
have been unable to say, but as time usually makes all 
things plain, the stroke of twelve revealed the fact 
that he was expecting a nocturnal visitor, and as he 
opened the door old Mr. Valwin, with a dark-lantern 
in one hand and a box of matches in the other, crept 
into the room. Both men took off their shoes, and 
Mr. Valwin whispered softly: sprinkled a liberal 

supply in every room, my own included, and I have 
brought this to be sprinkled here.’’ As he ceased 
speaking he emptied the contents of a small bottle on 
the soft carpet at the door, and immediately the faint 
odor of chloroform permeated the room; a bit of cot- 
ton was stuffed in the keyhole, and as the door closed 
softly the two men started a search through the ram- 
bling old house. So cautious were their footsteps, so 
careful every movement, that even the rats in the great 
bare rooms through which they passed did not cease 
their gambols. 

Suite after suite was investigated, wing after wing- 
explored, until every part of the old building had been 
visited by the two men, but that for which they sought 
was a mystery still, and they returned to their starting- 
point no wiser than when they left it. 

Mr. Valwin appeared to be on the most intimate 
terms with the strange artist, and far in the night they 
went over the contents of the ^dmdak,” consisting 
chiefly of torn bits of paper and other equally unim- 
portant looking things which had been gleaned from 
time to time, and were now being put together by the 
aid of pins, which held them in place on a stiff bit of 
cardboard. 

The first paper thus put together we recognize as the 
paper Jack Dumbarton gathered up from the grate in 
his room at ^^Glymont” the day he surprised Dorothy, 


341 


who claimed to have been writing letters there. The 
second was the letter which old Peter had gathered 
up from the lawn whither Dorothy had strewn it, after 
tearing it to shreds, and proved to be the one Joshua 
had brought her from the mysterious man, Dumbar- 
ton, upon his first appearance at ^^Glymont,’’ the con- 
tents of which we already know. 

Stacy Calhoun and Mr. Valwin looked at each other 
in astonishment when they saw before them in black 
and white the startling truths that these papers re- 
vealed, and in the exuberance of their joy over the 
new link forged in the chain of evidence they grasped 
each other’s hands like enthusiastic schoolboys over 
their first examination. 

The roseate hues of dawn were tinging the eastern 
sky when they separated and retired to their respect- 
ive couches, and it was not later than seven o’clock 
when Dr. Garrison, who had discovered that chloro- 
form had been used all over the house, aroused them 
from their slumbers to ascertain if anything had gone 
wiong, fully believing that burglars had entered the 
sanitarium while every one was asleep. Of course, he 
found no clue, and he never thought of attaching such 
a thing to the presence of Mr. Valwin or Mr. Calhoun. 

As soon as breakfast was over the artist paid his 
bill and returned to Belton in time to catch the 11 a. m. 
train for New York. He was feeling rather despond- 
ent over the defeat of his plans, and as he made his 
way carefully over the slippery roads, trying to think 
what course he had best pursue, he caught the sound 
of sleigh-bells and the musical ripple of a young girl’s 
laugh. 

He looked up quickly, and to his surprise there was 
not a single soul in sight, though the jingle of the 
sleigh-bells was plainly audible. 

Pausing to make certain that his ears had not de- 
ceived him, and to be sure that he was not laboring 
under some strange hallucination, he stood still in the 
road until a pair of spirited horses dashed around the 
curve from the ojjposite direction to which he had ex- 


342 

pected, and he saw that the man who held the reins 
was no less a person than Stanley Von Floville, whom 
we left languishing behind prison bars, and the young- 
girl beside him the fair queen of the floral kingdom, 
whom we last saw in the drawing-room of Eeginald 
Duchene^s palatial residence in the Capital City. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


ELIA CHELINI RECEIVES A TELEGRAM. 

THE very day that Mr. Deswald left Washington the 
Italian woman called at ‘^GlymonE’ and asked to see 
Mr. Sinclair, but the old man positively declined to 
have an interview with her, and the message that old 
Peter delivered was to the effect that she must transact 
all matters pertaining to her marriage claim with his 
lawyer, who could be found at his office on Pennsyl- 
vania avenue. The woman left ‘^GlymonP^ rather puz- 
zled as to the next move she must make. No longer 
having the Baron to advise her she was at a loss to 
know what nlan it would be best for her to pursue, and 
she had just reached her room at the Metropolitan 
when a telegram arrived for her. Wondering who had 
sent such a message to her, and what it portended, she 
tore open the small yellow envelope and read: 

^Tut vour case in the hands of the most able lawyer 
you can find and push it to the bitter end. 

‘‘S. Von Floville.^’ 

As soon as she had read the message she again put 
on her hat and coat, and, requesting the hotel clerk to 
direct her to one of the best lawyers in Washington, 
she started down the street. 

She found the office with very little trouble, and stat- 
ing her case as briefiy as possible, was informed by the 
lawyer that in all probabilitv she would win the suit, 
which was for a separation from her husband, James 
Sinclair, with application for ten thousand dollars 
per year alimony. The grounds she claimed were will- 
ful desertion and non-support. Before night the story 
was again in the papers and all Washington was again 


344 


pitying the Doctor’s poor daughter. While the ^^upper 
four hundred” are wagging their tongues over the 
‘^crimes” of the millionaire, and Elia Chelini is dash- 
ing olf a letter to her worthy ^‘brother-in-law, ” we will 
go back to Reginald Duchene and Dorothy, whom we 
left to follow Mr. Deswald on his mysterious iourney. 
As soon as Mrs. Van Kelpen was safelv out of the way, 
the would-be lover drew his chair up to the side of the 
great sleepy-hollow in which Dorothy reclined, and 
taking one of her fair white hands in his he said 
gently: 

“Mrs. Sinclair, I have come here to-day to ask of you 
some very important questions. May I hope that you 
will listen to me without indignation at my precipi- 
tancy?” 

Dorothy looked up smilingly. 

“I am sure, Mr. Duchene, that you have nothing so 
very dreadful to say to me that I should become indig- 
nant.” 

“I admit that it is nothing more than you might ex- 
pect after w^hat I said the last time we met, but I must 
first have your promise not to get angry.” 

“Tlien I promise,” said Dorothy, sw^eetly, and her 
lover proceeded : 

“In the first place, Mrs. Sinclair, I have learned to love 
you so dearly that I am not content one moment out 
of your presence. More than once before I have fancied 
myself in love, but such a w ild passion as this I never 
before experienced, and I have come to-day to plead 
with you, to beg of you, for one little wovd of hox)e. 
See, I go down on my knees to you. Only look into my 
eyes, dear, and say, ‘Reginald, I love you.’ ” 

Dorothy turned her face awmy to hide the rapture 
that wms beaming on every lineament. 

“Really, Mr. Duchene, I can not credit you with 
being so comi^letely mastered by the grande passion, 
she said, brushing back the fiuffy curls that played over 
her blue-veined brow. 

“It is only because you do not know me, my angel. 
I have told you nothing but the truth. My very soul 
yearns for you. You are never out of my thoughts one 


345 


minute during the day, and in the still hours of the 
night I wake finding my arms outstretcdied to cdasp 
you to my throbbing heart. Come to me, Dorothy! 
Come to the arms that are ready to shield you through 
all the storms of life. Lean your dear head upon the 
heart that would spill its last drop of blood to save you 
a pang! Come, m}^ love.’^ 

li(* held out his strong arms and before Dorothy had 
time to think of the dreadful step she was taking, pru- 
donce was thrown to the winds and she was clasped to 
his breast in an embrace such as she had never known 
before. 

PasFionate kisses were rained upon her blushing, up- 
turned face and she yielded herself to the bliss of the 
moment without so much as a thought of where it 
would all end. 

‘^There, there, my darling! You are mine now and 
nothing in this wide world shall take you away from 
me,” murmured the enraptured lover, and Dorothy, for 
the firvst time realizing the awful mistake she had 
made, disengaged herself from his clingiug arms and 
burst into a flood of tears. 

^‘Oh, Reginald, Avhat are you saying? What are you 
saying?” she sobbed. 

^^What am I sayiug, my love? I am saying that you 
belong to me, and from the bottom of my heart I mean 
it. Heaven intended us for each other, and through 
the perversity of fate, they have allowed you to link 
y>>ur destiny to that old man, but love is stronger than 
such fetters, and I mean to take you away from him. 
You will come away with me, Dorothy? We will go 
to some beautiful, far-off city where no one will know 
of the cruel chains we have been forced to break, and I 
shall tell you of my great love every hour of every day 
in the blissful years until the last sun goes down and 
we find ourselves united in eternal love.” 

“No, Reginald,” she cried; “1 can not go with you. 
4dje ties that bind me to my present life are not ties 
tljat can be lightly broken. Were I to consent to what 
you suggest the life eternal which would follow this 
would be a life of eternal remorse, bitterness, and woe. 
We should look upon each other as partners in guilt. 


346 


and all our great love would be turned to fiendish 
hatred to mock us through the unending years. We 
must trust our futures to God and wait.’’ 

As she ceased speaking the young man rose to his 
feet and looked dowm upon her in bewilderment and 
wonder. Was it jiossible that Dorothy Merlebank 
t nil Id talk to him like this? She whose very soul was 
steeped in crime to an extent that women rarelv know. 

‘‘Surely, Dorothy, you can not mean that you will 
s(‘nd me away from you now that I have learned to 
love you so?” he said. 

‘‘Yes, Reginald, there can be no talk of love between 
us while my husband lives,” she replied, bursting into 
tears afresh. “You must leave me, but believe me, it 
is as hard for me as for you. I feel that my own heart 
will break if this bondage holds out much longer. Oh! 
leave me, I beg of you, while it is yet time!” 

“Dorothy, 1 can not leave you while you are weeping 
sj li'ou must let me comfort jmu.” 

“There is no comfort for me,” she moaned; “I have 
tried my life and it is a hopeless failure. I shall never 
be happy again. Oh, Keginald, Keginald, why did we 
meet only when it was too late?” 

“It is not too late, my darling, if you will only take 
hold of my hand and let me guide you. I will lead you 
to a life that the angels might envy. You shall have 
no wish ungratified. My days shall be spent in trying 
to i)romote your comfort, and the sole aim of my life 
will be to make you happy. Will you come, Dorothy, 
and let me prove my undving love for you?” 

“I can not,” she said faintly, and w^e who know her 
know there must have been something more than her 
duty to the old man she was daily deceiving that kept 
her fi'om yielding to his entreaties and accepting the al- 
lui'ing prospect he pictured to her of the life they 
would lead. 

He wmuld not leave her, remaining to go over the 
same old story again and again, but no amount of 
pleading and coaxing would induce her to change her 
mind, and at last, worn out with unavailing prayers, 
the ardent lover took his departure and Dorothy w^ent 
up to her room to spend the rest of the dav in tears. 


347 


\\ liether Kegiiiald Ducliene had tried these measures 
to test the loyalty of Mrs. Sinclair or whether he really 
wanted her to leave the old man and go away with him 
is a question that we are not prepared to decide, but 
there is one thing quite certain, and that is he repented 
of his folly as soon as he was out of the house and had 
time to think it all over. His vast, reputed wealth was 
by no means what Mrs. Van Kelpen had represented it 
to be, and he saw now how foolish he was to try to coax 
Dorothy a wav from the old man until she was in pos- 
session of his fortune, and they could be safely pro- 
vided for. When he reached home he went at once to 
his writing desk and dashed off a note to the object of 
his affections. 

“M}^ darling,^’ he wrote, ‘H was rather angry when 
you so coldly repulsed my proposition this morning, 
but, upon second thought, I am satisfied that you were 
right. At best Mr. Sinclair can not last long, and when 
he has passed into the other world I shall be free to 
claim the idol of my heart and still face the world with 
out shame. Do not let my impetuous words cause a 
breach between us, but write me a line to say that I 
am forgiven. 

^Mlways yours, 

^^Eeginald.’’ 

This note was concealed in a bunch of snow-white 
orchids and sent over by special messenger, and the 
reply had scarcely reached the young man when the 
evening napers came out and the news of Elia Chelini’s 
claim to be the lawful wife of the millionaire and a 
full account of the particulars in the case were given 
to the public. People began to wonder if the truth 
would ever be decided, and if so, who would be the 
wife, but in their wildest flights of fancy they never 
imagined anything so strange as they learned when 
the case at last came up and the truth was revealed. 

How the chief plotters expected to get out of the 
complicated web in which they were entangling them- 
selves it is doubtful if thev could have told, and when 
the crash came it was all the more interesting because 
totally unexpected. 


CHAPTER XLll. 


A SINGULAK TEICK OF FATE. 

THAT the voimg Englishman recognized Baron Von 
Floville we already know, but how he could have made 
his escape from prison was a point Stacy Calhoun could 
not understand, and his being out with Daisy Stafford 
made the solution more difficult. 

That they had not come from the ^^Home Sanitar- 
ium” he well knew, and that they were not returning 
there, the horses’ heads being turned in an opposite di- 
rection, certainly indicated. The young man knew it 
would be impossible for him to keep pace with the 
spirited animals, even though he walked as fast as he 
could, and to ask for a ride would be to betray his cu- 
riosity ; still he determined to find out where the Baron 
was taking the demented girl. Carefully picking his 
way over the slippery places, he waited until the sleigh 
was just oeoosite him when he made a false step which 
precipitated him to the ground and sent his ^^kodak” 
flying in one direction and gold-headed cane in an- 
other. 

His every effort to gain his feet proved in vain, and 
the Baron, seeing his trying situation, at once drew 
rein and sprang from the sleigh to his assistance. 

^^Are you hurt, sir?” he asked, kindly. 

fear I have sprained my ankle,” replied the youth, 
with another desperate effort to rise. 

Allow me to assist you,” said the Baron; ^^there is 
plenty of room in my sleigh, fortunately, and as you 
seemed to be goinir in the same direction I shall be glad 
to p-ive you a ride.” 

^^Thank you,” replied Mr. Calhoun; really believe 1 
am unable to walk. If you will kindly lend me your 


349 


arm. I started out this morning to take a ten-mile 
constitutional, and if possible to photograph some of 
the beautiful scenery hereabouts, but i tear my am- 
ateur work is done for to-da}^ Can you tell me how far 
it is to Princeton?’’ 

believe it is somewhere about seven miles from 
this point,” replied the Baron. ^‘However, if that is 
your destination you need not trouble yourself about 
the distance as Ave are uoaa^ on our Avay there and aauII 
be pleased to take you along Avith us.” 

‘‘I am sure vou are exceedingly kind,” said Mr. Cal- 
houn, ''and your appearance is certainly most opi)or- 
tune. I do not see hoAV I should have gone the rest of 
the Avay aa ith this unfortunate sprain.” 

"Don’t mention it,” replied the Baron, tucking the 
robes around him, and climbing to his seat beside Miss 
Stafford. 

The jingle of the sleigh-bells and clatter of the 
horses’ hoofs OA^er the hard-frozen snoAV left very little 
opportunity for conversation, but by the time they 
reached Princeton Mr. Calhoun had learned that Miss 
Stafford and Baron Von Floville were staying at the 
house of a friend, and that Miss Stafford had recently 
been betrothed to a certain Dr. Merlebank, and the 
marriap-e was to take place as soon as the young lady’s 
trousseau could be ordered from Paris. 

Mrs. Olden, the friend with whom the Baron and 
Miss Stafford w^ere staying, out of courtesy to her dis- 
tinguished guevSt iiiAited Mr. Calhoun to remain there 
also until his ankle was better, and as the sprain had 
by this time become very painful, he gladly consented. 

When Dr. Merlebank learned that the young man 
was an "Englishman,” and but recently over from Eng- 
land, he became his best friend. The dapper youth was 
so unsophisticated in the w^ays of the world and so 
enthusiastic upon every subject, that for once the 
shrewd little Doctor forgot to be careful, and before 
three days had passed he had confided to the young fel- 
low that his -fiance was a great heiress, and would oim 
day be worth a cool million in her own right, a confi- 
dence which the youth considered A^ery flattering to 
himself. 


350 


The sprained ankle did not prove very serious, and 
at tne end ot three days the young man continued his 
journey, extracting from the Doctor a promise that he 
\v oula let him know how all went with him, and if the 
charming little romance turned out all right. 

“A capital sort of fellow,^’ said the Doctor to Baron 
Von hloville, as the train pulled out and Stacy Cal- 
houn waved his white silk handkerchief back to them. 

People were surprised to see Mr. Deswald back from 
his trip inside of a week when he had left explicit 
notice that he might be gone for a month, but a warm 
Avelcome ahvays awaited him whether he had been ab- 
sent a day or a year. 

He lost no time in going to ^‘Glyniont,’’ and when he 
reached the house he found to his surprise that Mr. 
Sinclair was dangerously ill. 

Dorothy had telegraphed for her father, vrho was 
hourly ex^^ected, and Miss Caswell, the nurse who had 
acted as Miss Flaxham’s assistant during the old man’s 
illness the previous Winter, was already there. A phy- 
sician was in constant attendance, but instead of grow- 
ing better the old man continued to decrease , in 
strength, and in less than a week from the time 
he was first attacked all hope was past and Dr. Merle- 
bank declared he must die, unless some miraculous 
change took place in a short time. 

Letters passed daily between Dorothy and Eeginald 
Duchene, and the sorrowing young wife (?), who went 
about the house with a lace handkerchief to her eyes 
one-half the time, was going down on her knees each 
morning praying that the old man would die before 
the sun set. 

Elia Chelini’s case was rapidly being pushed to a 
close, and the chances were that she would be granted 
a rlecree of separation with ten thousand dollars a year 
alimonv. 

Mr. Deswald haunted ^^Glymont” like a shadow, dis- 
tress and anxiety written on every line of his honest 
old feee. He was dreadfully afraid that Mr. Sinclair 
would die before he could complete the chain of evi- 
dence in the case which he had been secretly working 
for almost a year, and it did look as though every day 


351 


would be his last, but the iron constitution of the mil- 
lionaire and the grim determination of Dr. Merlebank 
to keep him alive long enough to serve his own purpose 
triumphed day after da}^, and Dorothy^s i)rayers were 
unavailing. The Doctor knew as well as he knew any- 
thing that the strange fainting spells the old man suf 
fered were not due to natural causes, and he searched 
the books of medical lore for information on the sub 
ject until his eyes were aching and his brain weary, 
but not one word could he find that in any way ap- 
peared to fit the case, and at last he made up his mind 
to watch for himself. To his knowledge there was no 
poison in the world that v/ould produce such singular 
effects, and if Dorothv were administering it he felt 
sure that she was not alone in the crime. The Doctor’s 
anxietv over the old man did not arise from any desire 
to prolong his life, except for a sufficient length of time 
to accomplish his own selfish purpose. If Dorothy 
were willing to do the square thing by him the ^h)ld 
fool” might die any time, but Elia Chelini’s plausible 
claim was now a point of extreme interest as well as 
disgust to the Doctor; but with Dorothy it was differ- 
ent. She had never once thought of the fact that in 
event of Mr. Sinclair’s death the proofs Elia Chelini 
held would be sufficient to cut her out of every cent of 
the fortune and make the Italian woman his heiress. 

Surely they were the worst set of vampires that ever 
hovered over a poor dying creature. The nicht of his 
resolve to keep watch for the poisoner Dr. Merlebank 
stationed himself behind a screen in one corner of the 
room in which Mr. Sinclair lay, and cutting two holes 
large enough for him to see any person who came into 
the room, himself unseen, he waited patiently, and it 
was not long after midnight when his vigilance was 
rewarded. Miss Caswell had adjusted the light to the 
proper degree, tucked the covers around the patient, 
and herself stole out to snatch an hour’s rest before the 
time for Mr. Sinclair to be seized v/ith the fainting fit 
which had now become a daily occurrence. Shortly 
after she left the room the door opened softlv and a wo- 
man entered. She crept with noiseless footsteps to the 
table upon which the water bottle and glasses were ar- 


352 


ranged where the invalid could reach out and help him- 
selt whenever ne chose. L-ooking cautiously around 
the room to see that no one was present, sue urew a 
tiny bottle from her bosom and dropped into the glass 
a single drop of colorless liquid, returned the bottle to 
her bosom, and left as noiselessly as she had come. 
By the time she had reached her own door the Doctor 
was at her heels. 

‘^You fool,^' he hissed, ^^do you not know that you are 
Vv orking to cut yourself out of every dollar for which 
you have sold yourself?’’ 

He caught the woman by the shoulders and wheeled 
her around as though she had been a baby, and stood 
face to face with Suzanne. 

The woman was as white as a ghost and her teeth 
chattered so she could not speak. ‘^Give me that bot- 
tle,” demanded the Doctor, and before the maid had 
time to remonstrate, he had torn her dress open and 
seized the phial. ^^How dare you administer poison to 
a sick man, you cold-blooded murderess?” 

^Toison, Monsieur?” she queried, and then in her 
broken English she explained that the medicine was a 
sleeping potion which Madame had insisted upon her 
giving to the sii*k man to make him rest comfortably, 
and which she had to administer secretly because Miss 
CasAvell was so strict about medicine. 

After this explanation Suzanne was permitted to re- 
tire, and the Doctor kept the bottle of medicine in h^s 
own possession. He Avas anxious to see Avhat drug it 
was that produced such a strange effect. When break- 
fast was over he requested his dauiihter to come to the 
library with him, and as soon as the door was securely 
locked, he turned to her and asked: 

^W^here did you get that bottle of poison, that you 
have been giAung your husband throup’h the instru- 
mentalitA^ of that half-witted French maid?” 

Dorothy laup^hed, musically. 

^^Beally, papa, your quesDons are amusinu'. I should 
like to know Avhere you jret all of vour foolish fancies?” 

rf^neat my question, where did you get that 
poison?” 


353 


‘^Granting that I did get poison from some source, 
what good would it do you to know?^^ 

^‘That is a point which does not concern you/^ said 
the Doctor, hotly. 

^^Since you choose to be so commanding, I refuse to 
tell you,’’ said Dorothy. ‘^If you have quite finished 
with me I shall go to my room.” 

Seeing that force would not make her tell him what 
he wished to know, the Doctor tried persuasion. 

^^Look here, Dorothy, I am anxious to know how you 
obtained a drug, entirely unknown to medical science, 
as far as I am aware, and I beseech you to tell me.” 

‘^Ah, you can be civil! How very astonishing! If you 
must know, that little bottle of medicine came from 
India, but how or from whom I received it you nor no 
other person will ever know.” 

^^Be seated,” said the doctor, ^^I must talk to you fur- 
ther. Do you not know that you are acting very fool- 
ishly in trying to get rid of your husband at this 
time?” 

^^Why this time more than any other?” asked 
Dorothy. 

^^Because if he dies while this divorce suit is pend- 
ing, Elia Chelini will get every dollar of his money, and 
you will be left without — a dime.” 

Dorothy grew white to the very lips. 

^^I had not thought of that,” she said. have the 
antidote, which I shall give to Suzanne to administer 
at once.” 

think,” said her father, ‘Ve had better try and 
coax this woman to withdraw her suit. I’ve no doubt 
but she would be willing to accept a few thousand and 
retire from the field. The same can be done with Von 
Floville, who is prettv anxious to get out of the coun- 
try, and then we will have the balance to ourselves. I 
suppose I may as well tell you now as any other time, 
I am to be married pretty soon, and I am rather in a 
hurry for my share of the money.” 

^^You to be married, papa!” said Dorothy reproach- 


12 


354 


fully. ‘‘I think you might at least wait until — until a 
suitable time.’’ 

‘‘I did not ask for your advice,” replied the Doctor, 
^^and until I do you need not trouble yourself to 
give it.” 

‘^May I ask who the fortunate young lady is to be?” 
said Dorothy, sneeringiy. 

“I do not object to your asking,” said the Doctor. 
^^She is none other than your rival. Miss Daisy Stafford, 
the acknowledged beauty and crowned queen of ^your 
particular set.’ ” 

‘^And yet it may be a little odd to you that the ^Gold 
King of Australia’ prefers your own plain, defeated 
daughter, to this matchless belle,” said Dorothy, with 
a triumphant smile. ^‘Think of the magnificence of 
uniting his fortune and the Sinclair millions,” she 
added gleefully. 

‘‘To quote your own words,” said the Doctor, “I think 
you might at least wait until a suitable time.” 

]3orothy broke into another musical laugh. 

“I never pretended to be in love with my old hus- 
band,” she said, “and I am hopelessly in love with his 
gold, and in view of the fact that I may lose it unless 
Elia Chelini’s claim is disproved, I think I had better go 
and instruct Suzanne to give him a dose that will coun- 
teract the effect of that precious phial you hold.” 

The way they drugged and dallied with the old man 
was equaled by nothing save the way a cat tantalizes a 
poor little mouse before she puts it to death, and yet 
with all the lawyer’s shrewdness, he did not once think 
(hat they \vould dare to attempt such a thing as poison- 
ing ^fr. Sinclair. 

The Doctor chuckled with delight over his carefully 
arranged plot to marry Daisy Stafford, spring the 
grand surprise upon them all, and outwit his beautiful, 
scheming daughter, though in what possible way his 
marriage to the insane girl could affect Dorothy’s 
chances, the Doctor alone knew. Of course, Dorothy 
was supposed to be his heiress, and as he had often de- 
clared himself possessed of an ample fortune it might 


355 


mean that he would disinherit her, and make his will 
in Daisy’s favor. So tangled had the circumstances be- 
come that we are wholly unprepared to say what any 
of tiiern meant to do. It seemed that Mr. Deswald was 
sitting by with folded hands, so far as his efforts to 
clear the mystery could be seen from an outward 
standpoint. And, as practical thieves are proverbially 
bold, these daring villains carried on their murderous 
plans in open defiance of everything, intent upon noth- 
ing but their own success and the accomplishment of 
their fiendish purposes. 

Dr. Merlebank received letters regularly from his 
affianced wife, and Daisy exhibited the most perfect 
happiness over her prospective marriage, though what 
the tall, slender, graceful girl could have seen to ad- 
mire in the chuffy little red-faced Doctor was a mys- 
tery to all who knew her. 

From the day that the Doctor had detected Suzanne 
in the act of administering poison to Mr. Sinclair, and 
Dorothy had declared her intention of giving him an 
antidote, the old man commenced to improve, and those 
who were desirous of his recovery were fiattered by the 
most favorable symptoms. 

The Doctor evinced his satisfaction by the most 
pleasant smiles and the most careful attention, and 
the old man’s confidence in his ability was again re- 
stored. 

The tide of events was now fiowing in accordance 
with their most sanguine hopes and Dr. Merlebank felt 
that all would be well if he could only induce Elia Ohe- 
lini to withdraw her claim, and Baron Yon Floville to 
accept a given amount of money and retire from the 
field. From the diplomatic old lawyer he anticipated 
little or no trouble, because he was blind to the law- 
yer’s quiet sagacitv. He was nov/ prepared for any 
emergency, save that which really happened. 

Fatal yellow missive! What new and awful horror 
do you portend? 

A messenger skimming along over the frozen ground 
springs from his wheel at the door of ^^Glymont” and 
hands in a telegram for Dr. Jeremiah Merlebank. 


356 


With trembling fingers the Doctor breaks the 
seal of the small yellow envelope and reads in the has- 
tily scrawled words the death-blow of all his hopes: 

^^Daisy Stafford found dead in bed this morning. 
Funeral services to-morrow at ten. 

^^S. Von Flovillb.’’ 


CHAPTER XLllI. 


I A NEW VISITOE AT “GLYMONT.” 

IT was a mystery to Dr.Merlebankwhy Daisy should 
have died so suddenly, when less than a week ago he 
had left her in the best of health, without the slight- 
est sign of any disorder, excepting, of course, the men- 
tal trouble, from which she had not yet recovered; but 
Dr. Garrison had emphatically declared that this 
would not shorten her life a single hour. It slowly 
dawned upon him that the Baron might be playing 
him a dirty trick, and meant to marry the girl himself; 
and with this idea fully established in his mind he 
began preparations for a trip to Concord. 

The Baron, tilted comfortably back in one of Mrs, 
Olden’s sitting-room rockers, watching the blue 
wreaths of smoke as they curled upward from his 
choice Havana, was dnmfonnded to receive a dispatch, 
which read : 

^^Go on with the arrangements. I am unable to 
come. Will write to-morrow. Merlebank.” 

. He was at a loss to know what arrangements the 
Doctor had reference to, and he gave vent to his aston- 
ishment by saying: 

^^Confound it all, Merlebank is the most odd speci- 
men of humanitv I ever saw. What the devil does he 
mean by all this mystery? The fellow doesn’t know 
his own mind two minutes at a time.” 

That Daisy Stafford’s sudden demise was not trou- 
bling the Baron to any great extent was very appar- 
ent. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was almost 
one o’clock, and, remembering that he had an engage- 


358 


ineiit for half-past, he doiiued his silk hat and seal 
overcoat and strode out into the street. 

The telegram had been only a ruse by which Dr. 
Merlebank hoped to throAv the Baron off the track and 
surprise him in any intended deception he might be 
preparing to practice. Almost as soon as the message 
nad been dispatched lie boarded the train for Concord 
with no other baggage than a small gripsack, which he 
carried in his hand. 

Doroth}^ was in excellent spirits the day her father 
ileft Washington, and, as she was in need of a small 
amount of money, she set about her usual fawning 
process of extracting it from the old man. Preparing 
a glass of her favorite Moselle, she gave it a dash of the 
• colorless liquid which she knew would infuse new life 
into his veins, and went to the sick room. 

“See, Mr. Sinclair, I have brought you some of my 
delicious Moselle, sweetened and prepared with my 
own hands, and T am sure it will do you good.^^ She 
.held the glass out to him, and she looked so innocent 
and childlike in the glow of the morning sun that the 
old man was almost persuaded that she was not the 
artful creature and designing woman Mr. Deswald 
•-would have him believe. 

.. “You are very kind to think of me,^^ he said, as he 
took the dainty goblet from her hand. “Here’s to the 
health, happiness, and long life of the fairest Avonian 
and the sweetest Avife God ever bestoAved upon nian,^' 
he continued, draining the contents at a single 
draught. 

j- “Thanks, Mr. Sinclair; that Avas a toast Avorthy of a 
queen’s best response, but I fear I am not Avorthy of 
the high opinion you bestow upon me. I assure you 
I am only a very weak, erring little woman, after all, 
but my greatest desire is to deserve the love and es- 
teem of my husband.” 

The old man dreAV her doAvn to the arm of his easy 
chair, and, slipping his arm around her waist, he said: 

“You have all that, and more, my Dorothy. There 
have been times when I have doubted if you ever 
really cared for me, but your anxiety, your Avatchful 


359 


care, and sweet attention to me during my past ill-' 
ness have made me feel that I was unkind to ever let 
such a thought enter my head.’^ r 

Dorothy looked into his face with the most bewitch-' 
ing of smiles. 

'‘Why should I have married you, Mr. Sinclair, if 
not because I loved you? My father has plenty of 
money, and one day it will all be mine. I had other 
offers, and might have taken my choice of half a dozen ^ 
men, some of them high up the ladder of fame, young, 
rich, handsome, possessing every quality that is ex- 
pected to please a young girPs fancy, and from all the 
list of suitors who pleaded for this hand my choice 
fell to you. If it was not love, what actuated me to 
turn from those of my own age and give my life into 
your keeping?’’ 

"Then you do love me, my wife?” said the old maiD 
fondly, and for answer Dorothy wound her arms 
around his neck like some loving, artless child, and 
murmured fondly, "Of course I do, Mr. Sinclair.” 

It made not the slightest difference to her that be- 
fore the eyes of the world she was not his wife at all. 
So long as he persisted that Elia Chelini’s claim was^ 
a fraudulent one, she had no idea of giving up her 
position as mistress of "Glymont.” She found the 
title too potent to resign without a struggle, but the‘ 
old man saw how the world would look upon her pres-- 
ence under his roof, with no friend of her own sex, and^ 
with the careful thought and kindly consideration for’ 
her good name which had characterized his actions 
toward her in former days, he wrote a long letter, ex-' 
plaining everything, to Miss Stockton, the teacher and’ 
friend of his lost granddaughter, requesting her to' 
come to "Glymont” as the companion of his young 
wife. 

It would be hard to define the feelings which filled 
Alice Stockton’s heart when she read this letter. Twen- 
ty years ago the sight of his handwriting would have, 
thrilled her with keenest delight; now it brought the" 
hot tears to her eyes and a pang of bitterness to her. 
heart. She bowed her head on her hands and wept be- 


860 


fore she could bring herself to open the letter. He 
Avas married now; another woman had taken her place 
in his heart and home; what could he have to say to 
her? Had he at last realized the awful wrong he had 
done her and Avritten to ask forgiveness for the blight 
he had brought upon her life? She hoped not. Such 
a course could only arouse tender feelings, long since 
suppressed and put away, and it were best to leave 
them so. He was her first, last, and only love. She 
had been his second love, yet two women had found 
place in his heart since then, while she had been left 
to bear as best she might the life which, though bereft 
of all light, still wore on, never knowing why he had 
forsaken her and cast her love aside. But she had 
borne her sorrow bravely, and not one of those Avho 
knew and honored the sweet old maid ever dreamed of 
the reason that she preferred to live alone, and had 
refused the offers of men whose very names were a 
power. 

She saw her face refiected in the oval mirror on her 
dressing-table, and without the smallest iota of pride 
she acknowledged that it was a fair old face, a face 
which told no wmrd of the sorrowful heart beneath its 
cheerful smile. Her life had been spent with the 
strictest adherence to duty. There were hundreds of 
bright-faced, happy women, leading useful lives in the 
battle of the Avorld, that owed their best training to 
her. She had not spent her time in pining over a hope- 
less dream. Ah, well, it is only in novels that women 
die from broken hearts. In real life, however much 
they may long to lay down the burden, they usually 
learn that the breath will not be sighed away. As 
some sad poet has said — 

“ The d-.iy drags on, though storms keep out the sun; 

And thus the heart .vill break, 5’et brokenly live on.” 

Thank God, she had done the Avork He gave her to 
do. The snowy curls that crowned her fair old face 
were a coronet of glory to a life of usefulness, and 
there were those around her who spoke of her only 
as ‘^sweet Miss Alice.” 


361 


The letter still lay on her lap unread. Somehow 
she could not steady her hands to break the seal. 
What had James to say to her after all these years? 

At last, when she could keep back the hot tears that 
forced themselves to her eyes in spite of her efforts 
to control her emotions, she read the closely-written 
pages and laid her head back on the chair to think. 
He could ask her to come as a duenna for his young 
wife. Did he think she could be daily under his roof, 
sit at his table, and live in his presence for so many 
hours each day, and not remember the past? Had he 
really never loved her at all, or was the sweet little 
story of their past forgotten? How truly had the poet 
said: ^^Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart.” 

She laid the letter away, unable to decide at once, 
but that night she dreamed of a drowning man, hold- 
ing out his arms to her to be saved, and when she 
drew near the water’s edge she saw it was the hand- 
some face of James jSinclair as she had known him 
twenty years ago, and the’ mail that left at eight 
o’clock next morning carried a brief, but decided, an- 
swer to the letter she had received the day before, 
and when James Sinclair read the assuring words he, 
too, brushed a tear from his eye and murmured: 
thought Alice would come.” 

It was this letter he held in his hand when Dorothy 
came in with the wine, and when the subject turned 
to Elia Chelini he told her of his fears that the world 
would not look kindly upon her presence at ^^Glymont” 
alone with him, and of his request to Miss Stockton to 
come and remain with her until the case was decided, 
ending by giving her the letter to read, and Dorothy 
replied that ^^Miss Stockton was very kind to say she 
would come,” while in her heart she wished Miss Stock- 
ton at the bottom of the Eed Sea. It was not at all 
to her purpose to have an ^^old maid” poking her nose 
into her affairs, and meddling with all she did, but 
she had to accept the situation with the best grace 
she could, and when Miss Stockton arrived met her 
with such a charming show of kindness and appre- 
ciative welcome that the old lady was immediately 


362 


won over to her and half ready to forgive Mr. Sinclair 
for his falseness to her. 

She was quite surprised at the warmth with which 
Mr. Sinclair received her, but attributed it all to the 
fact that he felt more comfortable for his young wife, 
and, try as she might to drive the thought from her 
.mind, it rankled like a thorn in her breast and filled 
her heart with bitterness. The first days of her stay 
at “Glymont^^ were days of sadness. Every spot about 
the old place seemed to breathe of the sweet young 
girl whose life had been cut off from those who loved 
her so suddenly, so sadly, so mysteriously. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen continued to patronize the million- 
aire’s wife, and her visits to “Glymont” were hailed 
with the greatest delight by Dorothy; she was always 
received in her pretty boudoir, and Suzanne became so 
accustomed to bringing out one of Mrs. Sinclair’s neg- 
ligee gowns for her upon her visits to that “private 
.sanctum,” as the two women called the boudoir, that 
she had ceased to ask if it must be done, but would 
bring it out as regularly as if it were one of her duties. 

“One feels so delightfully at home here, Mrs. Sin- 
clair,” her friend would say, perching her feet upon 
the fender, more often to display her dainty slippers 
than from any comfort she hoped to derive from such 
a position. Dorothy had confided to her that she 
meant to give a grand ball on Christmas Eve, and Mrs. 
A^an Kelpen was in a perfect transport of rapture over 
the anticipation. It may be well to add here that, re- 
gardless of this lady’s sworn declaration that she 
would not marry the best man on earth, she was mak- 
ing a desperate effort to captivate Mr. Deswald, and 
for the past few days had been able to talk of no one 
else. She had even ceased to extol the praises of Kegi- 
nald Duchene, and once when Dorothy was speaking 
of some beautiful painting he had recently purchased 
she went so far as to say that she did not believe that 
the “Gold King of Australia” was one-half so rich as 
he was reputed to be. It had been her custom to re- 
main to luncheon with Mrs. Sinclair on her previous 
visits, but she had not done so‘once since Miss Stock- 


363 


ton^s arrival, and, though Dorothy insisted on her do- 
ing so, no amount of coaxing would turn her from her 
purpose, and she begged of Dorothy not to mention 
her name to the old lady. 

It was only one week until Christmas. Great prep-r 
aratious were being made for the ball that was to. 
take place at ^‘GlynionC’ on Christmas Eve, which a, 
great many persons thought decidedly out of taste, 
considering the scandal connected with Mr. Sinclair’s 
marriage, but Dorothy had an idea that a millionaire’s., 
wife could afford to defy public opinion, and perhaps a 
millionairess tcife could., so she persisted in lier course, i 
and the i)reparations went on. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen had spent the morning at ^^Gly- 
mont,” going over for Dorothy’s benefit the beauties 
of her dress, which had just arrived from Kedfern, and 
which she declared to be a ^‘symphony in gray.” Im- 
agine Mrs. Van Kelpen in gray. A woman with a 
complexion almost like saffron, some one had spite- 
fully (?) said, with hair and eyes of a dull, lustreless 
black. She did not look as though she could wear 
anything but black or red. 

Dorothy would tell nothing of her costume, Avhich 
was one she had bought from Worth while on her wed- 
ding tour. She wanted to create a sensation, she 
said, if that were jmssible with ^^Methuselah” at her 
side. 

^^He will not be there long, dear,” said Mrs. Van 
Kelj)en, soothingly. 

Miss Stockton happened to be standing at a front 
window when Mrs. Van Kelpen’s carriage drew up 
under the port cochere, and she saw her step in. 

^Gs that Mrs. Van Kelpen — Agnes Van Kelpen?” 
she asked, when Dorothy entered the parlor. 

^Wes, she is a friend of mine,” replied Dorothy. 

^^Dorothy, my dear child,” said Miss Stockton, com- 
ing over and laying her hand on the girl’s shoulder^ 

warn you never to make a confidante or a friend of 
Agnes Van Kelpen. She is not a fit associate for you 
or any other self-respecting woman.” 


364 


^^And why not?” questioned Dorothy, hotly. 

^‘When she was a young girl she was in one of my 
classes,” said Miss Stockton, ^^and I was forced to 
expel her for bad behavior. Later she married old 
Mr. Van Kelpen, and the sins she committed, Dorothy, 
are too horrible to pour into innocent ears. Don’t 
make a friend of her, my child, I warn you.” 

Miss Stockton was so terribly in earnest that Doro- 
thy could not help being impressed; but she would not 
acknowledge it to the sweet little lady. 

‘‘I am not accustomed to listen to people slander 
my friends,” she said, with flushed face, and the next 
minute Miss Stockton was alone. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


DAISY STAFFORD ESCAPES A SECOND TIME. 

DK. MEKLEBANK confided to no one the cause of 
his sudden return to Concord, and when he rang the 
bell at Mrs. Olden’s boarding house that lady herself 
answered the summons, and when she saw who her 
visitor was she mentally ejaculated that the Doctor 
certainly must be desperately in love. 

suppose the funeral is over,” said the Doctor, 
after he had wished Mrs. Olden good morning. 

^^The funeral!” echoed that lady in amazement; “I 
do not understand, sir. We have had no funeral here.” 

^^Ah, then, the young lady’s remains were taken 
home to be buried, were they not?” 

^^What young lady’s remains?” asked Mrs. Olden, 
assure you there has been no death in this house. 
You are certainly laboring under a false impression.” 

‘^Do you mean to tell me that Daisy Stafford is no^ 
dead?” asked the Doctor. 

^^JSTot unless she has died since she left here,” replied 
Mrs. Olden. 

^^Since she left here!” echoed the Doctor; “when did 
she leave, and where did she go?” 

“She left at an early hour yesterday morning, and 
I think she went home. There was an old man came 
and called for her and said her mother was very ill, 
and she was wanted at once,” said Mrs. Olden, looking 
inquiringly into the Doctor’s face. “I s’pose ’twas her 
uncle.” 

“Are you sure Von Floville is not at the bottom of 
this affair?” asked the Doctor. 

“That I could not say,” replied the woman; “if you 
would like to see the Baron I think he is in his room.” 


366 


Thus dismissed, Dr. Merlebank climbed the stairs 
to Baron Von Floville^s apartment on the third floor, 
and Mrs. Olden went back to her household duties, 
mentally declaring that she had the strangest lot of 
boarders that a mortal woman ever had to contend 
with. 

The Baron opened his door in response to a tap on 
the outside, and upon beholding the Doctor he ex- 
claimed : 

‘^Confound it, Merlebank, you here again? What 
the devil do you mean by this racing back and forth 
from New Hampshire to Washington?’^ 

''Damn it all, what did you telegraph me that lie 
for?” 

"I am not aAvare of having telegraphed you either 
a lie or the truth,” replied Von Floville. 

Merlebank took the telegram from his pocket and 
tossed it into the Baron’s lap. 

"Read that,” he said, "and see if you can throw any 
light on the subject.” 

The Baron broke into a laugh as he tossed the paper 
back to Dr. Merlebank. 

"I thought you were too old a bird to be fooled by 
chaff, Jerry. A man with half an eye could have seen 
through that telegram.” 

"Since you are so intelligent, suppose you explain 
it to me,” said the Doctor, sneeringly. 

"That’s easily done,” replied Von Floville. "The 
telegram was sent simply to start you off on a 'wild- 
goose chase,’ just as it has done, and the man who 
came here and carried Miss Stafford off with him is 
nobody but our meddlesome old friend, Deswald.” 

"There you are mistaken,” interrupted the Doctor : 
"I left Deswald at 'Glymonf yesterday morning, two 
hours after the time Miss Stafford left here.” 

The Baron was nonplussed. 

"By the way,” he said, "how is my friend, Mrs. Elia 
Chelini Sinclair, getting along without the aid and 
advice of her illustrious brother-in-law?” 

"Well enough, it seems. She has filed an applica- 


367 


lion for divorce from old Sinclair, with request for ten 
thousand dollars alimony.’^ 

“The blundering' fool!’’ shouted Von Floville; ^Vhat 
the devil did she do that for?” 

‘‘She did it in direct obedience to a telegram from 
you,” replied Merlebank, coolly. “At least, I am told 
sh(? did.” 

‘“A telegram! The Old Harry take the telegram! 
I itever dreamed of such a thing as sending her a tele- 
gram. It is all a confounded plot of Deswald’s to 
bring things to a climax and deliver her over to the 
authorities as he did me. However, he met his match 
in yours truly, and I’ll defy him to catch me again. 
Excuse me, Jerry; I must go to the telegraph office and 
send a telegram, sure enough this time. Proceedings 
for this divorce must stop at once.” 

Before the Doctor could utter a word he was out of 
the room, and a message went flying over the wires to 
Elia Ohelini at Washington. 

Regardless of the absurdity of the thing. Dr. Merle- 
bank found himself congratulating himself by shaking 
his two hands together. It were worth his trip to 
Concord to have accomplished this much. 

He left Concord early the following morning for 
Belton, and upon his arrival there found that a horse 
was not to be had at any price, and he was forced to 
make the five miles to the “Home Sanitarium” on foot 
through full six inches of snow, frozen hard. 

Whether Daisy Stafford were there or not, he must 
learn of Dr. Garrison where Mr. Valwin was, whom he 
believed to have carried the girl off. Strange as it may 
appear. Dr. Merlebank believed Mr. Valwin to be 
really insane and possessed of some strange idea in 
connection with Daisy, as a cause for his abducting 
her. 

Hungry as a bear and cross as a wolf, he made his 
appearance at the sanitarium about one o’clock, just 
as dinner was being served to Dr. Garrison, Mrs. Staf- 
ford, and Mr. Hilburn — no one else. 

Clarice laid cover for another, and the Doctor drew 
up to the table. 


368 


As soon as dinner was over the two men retired to 
Dr. Garrison’s private office, to talk over the strange 
disappearance of the young girl. Dr. Garrison in- 
formed his friend that Mr. Valwin had left the sani- 
tarium fully a week before, declaring his intention of 
going home, and nothing had been heard from him 
since. 

After careful consideration of the matter the phy- 
sicians came to the conclusion that the ‘^Home Sani- 
tarium” had been invaded by a man who had something 
more in view than a mere desire to please the young 
girl, and it was deemed advisable to move to another 
part of the State as soon as the girl could be found. 

Dr. Merlebank was of the opinion that Mr. Valwin 
would again take her to AVashington, and in view of 
this fact he left for that point the next morning, with 
strict injunction to Dr. Garrison to be ready to re- 
move from the ^^Home Sanitarium” at a day’s notice. 

Daisy must be kept under strict surveillance until 
Elia Chelini was summarily out of the way, and he 
could be fully satisfied what Dorothy meant to do. 

He was rather surprised to find Miss Stockton, whom 
he had met at the ^^Home Sanitarium” a few weeks ago, 
and later at the fioral ball at Reginald Duchene’s resi- 
dence in Washington, acting as chaperone to Dorothy. 

People came up and were in some way connected 
with each other to an extent he had never before seen. 
As surely as he met a person up inNewHampshirethat 
person would at an early date appear at the National 
Capital. Preparations for the grand Christmass ball 
were in full swing at ^^Glymont,” invitations had been 
issued for one hundred guests, and Dorothy was in a 
perfect fever of excitement over what promised to be 
the crowning event of her social triumphs. Small had 
come all the way from New York to furnish the decora- 
tions, and Huyler was to furnish the supper, which 
was to be served in a style that a king might envy. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen came and went at her pleasure, just 
as though Miss Stockton did not exist, and if Dorothy 
ever thouaht of the low-voiced little lady’s warning she 
did not allow it to be seen by any one else. 


369 


AY hat cared she for the “fogy’^ notions of an “old 
maid/’ who was only jealons of Mrs. Y"an Kelpen’s pop- 
ularity? She movea in tlie very best circle in Washing 
ton, and even if she had maae some few mistakes in 
her younger days, there were plenty of others who had 
done the same, and still held tneir heads up among the 
best people in society. All this reasoning went on in 
young Mrs. Sinclair’s mind, while the sad-faced little 
teacher looked on and silently prayed that she might 
not be led astray by this cold-blooded adventuress. 
Dorothy led astray! AY'hat would the teacher have 
said could she have known even as much as we know 
of her sinful life? 

Mr. Deswald took quite as much interest in the prep- 
arations for the ball as Mr. Sinclair did, and when tlie 
day came for the carpenters to build the dias, upon 
which the old man and his wife were to stand receiving 
their guests, he insisted upon being present to see that 
nothing was left undone, and Dorothy laughingly told 
him that she would see to it that he had at least one 
waltz with the belle of the ball. 

As they could not yet decide who was to be the belle, 
Mr. Deswuld was rather unenlightened as to whom his 
partner would be. Dr. Merlebank squinted his little 
bead-like eves and looked on in disapproval of the en- 
tire proceedinff. He was opposed to people spending so 
much money on such fleeting amusements, particu- 
larly when they were not certain that they could afford 
to do so, but Dorothy coolly informed him that she was 
mistress of “Glymont” and meant to do as she chose, 
and she further added that advice from him was 
neither desired nor acceptable. 

The ball was to come off on M^ednesday night, De- 
cember 24th, and this was Friday, the 19th. The 
events that were destined to crowd into the next five 
days would prove enough to fill a volume. 

Mr. Deswald did not remember to have been so busy 
in all the thirty years he had been practicing law. His 
presence was needed evervwhere, and it wus remark- 
able how manv calls Dorothy made upon his time. Sit- 
ting in In's ofHcp Friday morninc’. trying to plan some 
measure by which he could crowd two days’ work into 


370 


oue, liis office boy, who, by the way, was none other than 
Joshua, the errand boy, borroAved for a month from 
^^Glymont,’’ announced that a lady Avas waiting in the 
reception room, aa ho gave her name as Mrs. Elia Che- 
lini Sinclair. 

“Show her in,^’ said Mr. Deswald, preparing for a 
hot interview with the Italian woman. She glided into 
the office Avith the majestic sweep of a queen, bowed 
pleasantly to the lawyer, and accepted his invitation to 
haA^e a seat. Let her be what she Avould she was cer- 
tainly a magnificent woman, and Mr. Deswald could 
not help admiring the quiet manner in Avhich she came 
about her business. 

“Is there anvthing I can do for you, Mrs. Sinclair 
he asked, adopting the name by which she insisted 
upon being called. 

“No, I think not, sir. I have only come around to 
say that my application for a dh^orce from my husband 
has been aa ithdrawn.’’ 

“That is strange,^^ said Mr. Deswald. ^^May I ask why 
you have chosen to withdraw just at a time Avhen every- 
thing seemed to be in your favor?’’ 

“That is a question if asked by any one but yourself 
would receive no reply,” she said, smiling, ^‘but I do not 
object to telling you that I haA^e Avithdrawn my applica- 
tion because it suddenly dawned upon me that a di- 
vorce Avould leave Mr. Sinclair free to wed the daughter 
of my most hated enemy, Jeremiah Merlebank, and I 
would sell my soul to keep him from his desire to wed 
his daughter to the Sinclair millions.” 

^Ir. Deswald studied her closely. 

“Is that your only reason, Madame?” 

She flushed to the roots of her hair. “If I have other 
reasons, sir, they are of a nature that would do no good 
to tell you. I am not ashamed to admit that I love my 
husband.” 

The laAA'yer fixed his eyes upon her as though he 
Avould read her very soul. Did she think to deceive 
him? If so she had chosen the wrong man to make her 
confidante. He could have sworn that either Dr. Merle- 


871 


bank or Baron Von P''loville were in some way con 
nected with her strange movements. 

suppose you entertain a hope that you will oue day 
live with Mr. Sinclair again he said. 

^‘Yes/’ she replied, “that is my hope, thougli at pres- 
ent he repulses my every word of attempt at recon- 
ciliation. However, I shall one day convince liim that 
I did right in going to see my dying mother.’’ 

A few minutes later she took her departure, and the 
door had scarcely closed behind her when a rear door 
swung open and our old friend Mr. Valwin walked in. 
His face was wreathed in smiles and he carried in his 
hand a much-mutilated paper which we would hardly 
recognize as the tiny bits we saw pinned upon a ph^ce 
of card-board, on the night which Mr. Stacy Calhoun 
stayed at the “Home Sanitarium.” 

The mucilage bottle still stood open on the table iu 
the rear room and the paper was wet with the adhesive 
liquid. Mr. V alwin placed it in the lawyer’s hand, and 
as his eyes fell on the printed lines, filled in here and 
there with script in bold characters, the lawyer said 
slowly, “Bather a compromising bit of paper, eh?” “I 
should say so,” replied Mr. Valwin, with a shake of his 
head, by way of emphasis. While the two men were 
talking over this odd-looking document, as we will call 
it, until its true nature is revealed, a gust of wind blew 
the door between the two rooms slightly open, and 
though the room was in partial darkness, there was yet 
light enough for one to discern a most ghastly sight. 
Two chairs were placed about six feet apart, and upon 
these chairs a metallic case was placed, a casket which 
appeared to have been under ground for some time, 
though where such a mysterious thing should have 
come from and what it was doing in a room attached to 
Mr. Deswald’s office, the lawyer alone was able to tell. 

A little apart from this was a small leather-bound 
trunk, of ante-bellum style, and the lid tilted back re- 
vealed the diary bound in Kussia leather, which we at 
once recognize as Miss Flaxham’s, and beside it the 
bundle of letters, yellow with age and tied with a faded 
blue ribbon. 


372 


Neither of them noticed that the door was ajar, and 
while they were still talking over the patched-up docu- 
ment, the door of the office room swung open. Dr. Mer- 
lebank walked in, and fixed his eyes straight upon the 
metallic case. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


A KISS IN THE TWILIGHT. 

DK. MERLEBANK was the last person that Mr. 
Valwin would have shown himself before had he for a 
moment thought of his coming to Mr. Deswald^s office, 
but he was there before any one could say a word, and 
the old man made the best of a bad bargain by going 
up to him and shaking hands. 

^^Glad to see you, Doctor, he said cordially; hope 
the folks are all well up at the ^Sanitarium.’ ” 

“Oh, yes, quite well up to last accounts,” said the 
Doctor, keeping his eyes fixed on the casket in the ad- 
joining room. “Confound it all, Deswald, are you 
keeping an undertaking establishment in the rear of 
this building?” 

“Well, no, not exactly,” replied Mr. Deswald, fully 
equal to the emergency. 

“Th^n what the deuce does that mean?” asked the 
Doctor, jerking his head in the direction of the strange 
object. 

“Oh, that,” said Mr. Deswald, rising and closing the 
door, “is a casket I bought many years ago and placed 
out there so it might always be ready in case I should 
die without leaving money enough to bury me. You 
know, lawyers are proverbially poor, and I always had 
a horror of the worms eating my body, so I have stolen 
a march on them and cheated them out of a few dinners 
by getting a metallic case through which it will be im- 
possible for them to cut their way.” 

The lawyer knew he was talking a great deal of 
nonsense, but he had done the same thing many a time 
before to throw people off their guard, and Dr. Merle- 
bank, taking it for granted that he was eccentric 


374 


enough to do anything, thought no more about the 
back room and its odd furniture, and when the truth 
was at last made known no one was more surprised 
at the contents of the casket than he. 

His business to the lawyer’s office proved nothing- 
more important than a commission from Dorothy to 
Deswald, and he did not remain long. 

As he rose to leave, Mr. Valwin came forward and 
told him that he had purchased the residence next door 
to Mr. Duchene, where he would be at home to his 
friends after January the first, and requested him to 
call with his charming daughter. 

The invitation was accepted with effusive thanks, 
and as the Doctor was opening the door he turned 
back in the most nonchalant way imaginable and said : 

^^By the way, Mr. Yqlwin, have you heard from Miss 
Stafford lately?” 

Mr. Yalwin ran his fingers through his hair. ‘^Let 
me see; I believe I have not heard from her since I 
came to Washington last Sunday. When I left the 
^Sanitarium’ Dr. Garrison told me the young lady was 
visiting relatives at some place in Southern New 
Hampshire, but I was in quite a hurry to reach here 
in order to close the sale of my property, so did not 
go out of my way to look for her. I presume she is 
much better by this time.” 

There was not the least embarrassment in his man- 
ner, and the Doctor asked no further questions, re- 
turning to ^^Glymont” no wiser than when he left 
there. Of one thing he felt sure, and that was that 
Mr. Yalwin knew more of Daisy than he was willing 
to tell. 

As he ascended the marble steps at ^^Glymont” Dor- 
othy met him with a letter in her hand. ^^Just think, 
papa,” she exclaimed, am to have a real live prin- 
cess at my ball next Wednesday night — a beautiful 
Russian princess! Mr. Duchene has just written to 
beg an invitation for her. She only reached America 
yesterday, and came straight to his house. He must 
be a great man, papa, to entertain royal persons.” 

The Doctor had never wholly approved of Reginald 


375 


Dudieue, aud lie gave his shoulders a coutemptuous 
shrug as he replied : 

^^The daughter of some stripling prince who has 
about as much right to a title as I have, I dare say.^’ 

But his uncomplimentary remarks had no power to 
damp Doroth^^’s enthusiasm, and she hastened up to 
her room to reply to Keginald Duchene^s letter, to say 
that she would be delighted to have Princess Closky 
be present at the ball, also inclosing a printed invita- 
tion addressed to ^^Princess Marie Stephanie Olosky,^^ 
an act which she had not the remotest idea she would 
repent to the end of her life. 

That afternoon Mr. Duchene drove over to thank 
her for her early res]3onse to his request, and request- 
ed her to drive with him for an hour. Dorothy needed 
no second invitation, and in five minutes they had 
turned their back on ^^GlynionP^ and were driving rap- 
idly over the smooth roads for which the District of 
Columbia is unsurpassed. 

It was not long after they were out of sight before 
the young lover had his arm around her slender waist, 
and Dorothy’s head, regardless of costly millinery, 
was pillowed on his shoulder. 

‘^Do you know, my darling,” he murmured fondly, 

sometimes think I can not live another day without 
you? At such times I feel that I could murder the old 
man who stands between me and my love, and yet, 
when the story came out that he had a living wife and 
you had never been such, I was miserable beyond 
words. I could never bear to know that the rvoman 
I loved had been so terribly deceived. Oh, Dorothy, 
how I hate deception!” 

He felt her tremble like an aspen in his strong em- 
brace, and, gathering her closer to him, he said gently: 

^Ts not your cloak sufficient, Dorothy? You are 
shivering with cold.” 

^^Oh, yes, thank you,” replied Dorothy; ‘T am quite 
comfortable. That was only a shiver such as one feels 
when some one is walking over her grave.” 

^‘Such thoughts as death and the grave must not 


376 


come to your dear heart for many, many years, my 
pet.” 

^‘Biit they will come,” said Dorothy, sagely. ^^Many 
girls die younger than I am, and there is no reason 
why I should be more favored than any one else. Mr. 
Sinclair’s granddaughter died last spring, and she was 
only twenty-one, so young and good that one would 
have thought death would pass by her and take some 
older person, Avhose days of pleasure were over.” 

^^You know it has been said that ^the good die 
young,’ ” quoted her lover. “I hope my little girl is 
not so good that she will be taken away from me.” 

Dorothy could have laughed outright. The idea of 
any one thinking she was good filled her with amuse- 
ment. 

‘^No danger of that,” she replied, nestling her head 
closer to his shoulder, and for the life of her she could 
not have told why it was at that very moment she 
should have thought of the horrible night in Champs 
Ely sees, in Paris, when she tried to stab John Dum- 
barton, and came so near killing Carl Wilmerding, or 
why her thoughts should have turned from that to the 
scene of the marriage in a hospital ward, which had 
proved such a mockery, or of the awful look she saw on 
John Dumbarton’s face when he had pitched her lover 
into the lake. 

She wondered what would happen if Keginald Du- 
chene ever found out these secrets which she kept so 
securely locked in her own breast. Ah, Dorothy, these 
secrets are but small sins compared to others that 
might be laid at your door! 

Twilight was settling like a mist of gray over the 
turreted mansion when they returned from their drive 
upon which they started at three o’clock, to be gone an 
hour, and Miss Stockton, standing at a window in the 
dimly-lighted drawing-room, saw Eeginald Duchene 
bend his handsome head and kiss the red lips of James 
Sinclair’s wife. 

It would be hard to describe the feelings that filled 
the little woman’s breast at this shameful sight, and 
she turned away, not caring to witness that which 


she knew to be the most improper thing a woman can 
be guilty of, and yet a thing in which she, even, as 
chaperone to the girl, dared not interfere. 

Dorothy ran up the oaken stairs to change her dress 
for dinner, knowing that she would have barely time to 
do so, and as she reached the first landing she came 
face to face with Herr Eosenfeld. 

She fell back a step, thinking that her senses surely 
must be deceiving her, but the irrepressible professor 
came nearer, and, holding out his shapely hand, he 
said, pleasantly: 

^^Vell, Mrs. Sinclair, vas you frightened at the sight 
of some one dot you vas not egspectin’? I assure you 
it vas not a ghost you see.’’ 

Dorothy laughed over his broken English and oddly- 
constructed sentences, and, shaking his hand cordially, 
she said: 

^^Why, Herr Eosenfeld, this is an unexpected pleas- 
ure. I thought you were in Germany long since. 
However, welcome again to ‘Glymont.’ ” 

^Thanks, Mrs. Sinclair; 3"ou vas kind, very kind. 
We shall talk after dinner. I vill not detain you 
longer standing on de steps.” 

He bowed and passed down, and Dorothy flew to 
her boudoir, wondering what had brought him back at 
this inopportune time. 

At the dinner-table the professor explained that his 
absence from Berlin at this time was due to his hav- 
ing fallen ill out in the far West, where he had suf- 
fered a severe attack of typhoid fever and had lain 
for several weeks unconscious, and when at last he 
was restored to consciousness the physician declared 
it would never do for him to undertake an ocean voy- 
age, and he had been forced to write and cancel his 
engagement to play at the Conservatory of Music for 
the Christmas entertainment. 

Dorothy saw her chance and immediately requested 
him to remain at ^^Glymont” and furnish some of his 
divine music at her Christmas ball. The professor 
was very much fiattered, and declared that he would 
be delighted to do so. Unlike most musicians of such 


378 


great talent, he never refused to play when requested, 
and as no one ever heard his music once without being 
anxious to hear it again, he was usually in demand. 
Dr. Merlebank watched him furtively. He had never 
been able to convince himself who the professor really 
was, though he had never believed him to be all that 
he represented himself to be. That Herr Eosenfeld 
wore a wig and false beard he had already proved, but 
what features were hidden under this effectual mask 
he could never tell. 

The trained nurse, sleeping her last, deep sleep in 
the vault with the dead and gone Sinclairs, would not 
have been long in finding out, had her sightless eyes 
been able to see for one moment the twinkling orbs 
that defied all masks. 

Miss Stockton looked on in speechless amazement at 
Dorothy’s loving and graceful attention to Mr. Sin- 
clair. It was utterly impossible for her to comprehend 
such duplicity and such double-dealing. How could a 
w^oman, pretending to love one man, accept kisses from 
another. To the old-fashioned little teacher a kiss 
had always seemed sacred. No man on earth, save 
J ames Sinclair, had ever pressed one upon her lips, and 
that was when he told her his love and she promised 
to be his wife. That w’^as twenty years ago, but the 
bare thought of it sent a thrill through her heart to 
this day. Was she different from other w^omen, after 
all, in this strangely fatal love? Would it all be plain 
to her when this life was over and she stood upon the 
grand summit of the hill where mortal beings take on 
the things immortal, and earthly life, earthly hopes, 
and earthly ambitions lie behind them like a story 
that is told? 

Her eyes w^andered to the man whose wife had set 
these thoughts a-going, and he wms staring straight 
into her face. 


CHAPTER XLVl. 


BETHEL, THE BLIND NIGHTINGALE OF ITALIA. 

IT is sometimes very hard to understand how things 
are brought to a focus when we least expect such a 
thing, and there are times when we might bend every 
effort to this one end, and Fate could mock us with 
her perversity. 

Of course, we all understand that Mr. Deswald is the 
mainspring in the work that is silently, but surely, 
going on to bring to justice those who have wrought 
the sorrow and misery chronicled in the previous chap- 
ters of this story, and to promote the welfare and hap- 
piness of those who have been the innocent victims of 
the most daring plots ever carried out in the civilized 
world. And, thouglT the work had been a long and 
tedious one, it had been carried on under the skies of 
two continents; but as the earth starting round at sun- 
rise, will surely turn back to sunrise again, link after 
link had been forged in the chain of evidence, until 
it almost reached around the case, and the clearing of 
the mystery was a matter of the near future, and there 
are tliose in whose hearts the old lawyer’s name will 
be a charm when the secret has been told. 

A warm wave has shed its benign influence over the 
earth far up in the New Hampshire hills, and melted 
the snow, which now runs in tiny rivulets to the mur- 
muring streams rippling their wa}^ over pebbly bot- 
toms to reach the grand old Merrimac. 

Tim Mooney has been induced by the station-master 
to take his horse out and drive over to the ^^Home 
Sanitarium” to deliver half a dozen letters to Dr. Gar- 
rison. Prince Charlie picks his way over the rocky 
road to suit himself, nibbling here and there at any bit 


380 


of precocious shrubbery which may have sent out its 
tender green shoots to the magic influence of the sun. 

Tim is somewhat astonished when the great red 
building at last looms in sight, and he sees that every 
door and window is closed and bolted, and there is no 
sign of life anywhere about the place. He rides up to 
the door, dismounts, and gives the knocker a vigorous 
pull. Five minutes pass, and there is no answer. He 
gives another pull and waits flve minutes longer, and 
as there is still no response to his summons, he steps 
to his saddle and confides to Prince Charlie that the 
^dunys’’ are all gone, and the ^^spooks’’ and rats will 
again hold high carnival at Oberly’s farm. Prince 
Charlie gives an intelligent snort and starts off down 
the hill at a rate of speed that threatens to break every 
bone in his master’s body, and his own neck in the 
bargain. That Dr. Garrison and his strange patients 
have left Oberly’s farm matters little to the inhabi- 
tants of Belton, and Tim’s news that the place is de- 
serted does not even serve as a nine-hours’ wonder. 
The station-master replaces the unclaimed letters in 
the post office and returns to his corncob pipe, while 
old Mrs. Blixton, with her ten-cent ^^snacks,” appears 
at the station in time to secure half a dozen silver 
dimes for her appetizing sandwiches, and life at Belton 
goes on in the same old humdrum way which has char- 
acterized its existence for a term of twenty years. 
Tim Mooney realizes that he will miss the occasional 
five dollars which have come his way for hauling bag- 
gage or passengers to ^The farm” in his ^^Jersey wag- 
gin,” and beyond that not a regret is spent. 

Not a trace was left to show which way the inmates 
of the ^Tlome Sanitarium” had gone, and of Mrs. Staf- 
ford and Mr. Hilburn we know nothing, but a fashion- 
able silver plate, bearing the name ^^Chas. Y. Garri- 
son” fastened on the door of a private residence in 
Washington, tells us that Dr. Garrison has resigned 
his position as proprietor of the ^^Home Sanitarium” 
and will henceforth practice his profession in that 
city. Any person calling for the doctor would recog- 
nize in the trim little maid who answers the bell, our 


381 


little servant, Clarice. No one has as yet been able 
to fathom the mysterious depth of the doctor^s solemn 
gray eyes, but he goes on managing his patients, as 
readily as he did the poor crazy people who were under 
his care at the ^^Sanitarium.’’ 

Dr. Merlebank has not yet been able to learn any- 
thing of Daisy Stafford, and if Mr. Valwin holds the 
key to her whereabouts he will let no one else know, 
and we have now lost sight of Baron Von Floville, 
though Elia Chelini appears to be fully cognizant of 
his movements. 

Though it is yet three days until time for the ball, 
^‘GlymonC^ has become a veritable fairy bower, and 
Dorothy laughs with delight as she goes from one 
beautifully decorated roomi to another and tells her- 
self that it is all hers. The ballroom, state dining- 
room and conservatory have all been locked up and the 
keys turned over to her, and she will let no one enter 
until the proper moment arrives. Dr. Merlebank has 
just returned from the city, and he is in rhapsodies 
over a singing girl he . has listened to on the streets. 
She is called ^^Bethel, the Blind Nightingale of Italia,^^ 
and he declares that he has heard Patti, Nilsson, and 
Jenny Lind, but nothing so sweet as this beautiful 
gypsy-like creature who has the face of a seraph and 
the voice of an angel. 

Dorothy is intensely interested. She sees where 
she might take this gifted creature as a protege and 
make herself famous by giving to the world a singer 
that even the ^^Swedish Nightingale” would pause to 
listen to. 

^ Where is this marvelous creature, papa?” she asks, 
ready to issue her order for the carriage to go and hear 
for herself. 

^^Oh, she is taken back to some squalid little tene- 
ment by her tall, ungainly-looking brother, who leads 
her around with an air of proprietorship that is just too 
disgusting. 

^When will she be on the street again?” she asked, 
still intent upon accomplishing her purpose. “Oh, 
papa,” she added, “wouldn’t it be lovely if I could get 


382 


her to sing a song or two between dances the night of 
the ball?^’ 

The Doctor thought it would, and he offered to go 
with Dorothy over to the city at seven o’clock and hear • 
her sing, after which they would offer her a liberal 
price to sing on Wednesday night. 

lleginald Dnchene called after luncheon, and when 
Dorothy invited him to remain to dinner and drive over 
with them to hear the street singer, he pleaded an en- 
gagement to take the Princess Closky out, and made 
his adieux. 

Dorotli}^ did not know when she had been so anxious 
to liear anything as she was ^^Betliel, the Nightingale of 
Italia.” The very name had a charming sound to her, 
and when at last the hour came, she sprang into the 
carriage beside Miss Stockton, with her father and 
Herr Rosenfeld in the opposite seat, like a happy 
child. 

Any one who has ever visited Washington knows 
that Pennsylvania avenue is the great thoroughfare of 
ihe city, and the street of next importance, from a busi- 
ness standpoint, is Seventh street. It was in the center 
of the small, triangular reservation that intersects 
these two streets that Bethel, the Blind Nightingale of 
Italia, had chosen to stand, and by the time Mrs. Sin- 
clair’s carriage drove up, the crowd was so dense that 
to even get a glimpse of her without pushing one’s way 
through the eager mass would have been an impossi- 
bility. No one was late, ^^et every one was complain- 
ing of not getting there sooner. 

Dorothy" was determined to see her if she had to walk 
over the heads of the people to do so, and requesting 
Herr Eosenfeld to accompany her, she sprang from the 
cairiage and began pushingher way through the jostling 
crowd, just as the sweet singer began in a voice that 
sounded like the warble of a thrush, then swelled aloud 
to a beautiful strain that sounded like an echo let loose 
from the harp of an angel. It was a new song she sang. 
No one in the vast crowd had heard it before, and as 
the last note died away like the low sigh of the summer 
wind, a cheer went up from the throng such as no 


383 


prima donna had ever elicited from the throats of 
AVashington’s music-loving people. 

^^Oh, dot vas crand, dot vas crand!’’ said the i)ro- 
fessor, in a hushed whisper, and Dorothy cried out ; 
must see that wonderful creature. I must see 

her!’’ 

Before she could get two steps nearer, a second air 
was begun and every ear was strained to catch the 
whispering notes that rose and fell like the murmur of 
a brook as it washes over the pebbles or pauses to kiss 
the blue-bells that smile at their likenesses in its 
limpid depth. 

Dr. Merlebank listened wdth rapt attention, while 
Miss Stockton leaned back in the carriage and tried to 
convince herself that she was still on earth and that 
the voice was not the voice of one passed aw^ay long 
ago into the other w^orld. 

For one hour, an hour in which the entranced au- 
dience believed themselves transported to some far-off, 
angel-inhabited star, the matchless voice continued its 
bird-like warble, or melodious sw^ell, and w^hen that 
hour was past and Bethel, the Blind Nightingale of 
Italia, stepped from her miniature stage, hats were 
passed around by the dozens and a collection that 
amounted to hundreds of dollars w^as poured into her 
lap. 

^^Shust pe still, Mrs. Sinclair,” said the professor, 
^^and by and by der crowd vill preak avay, and you can 
see. Don’t pe in such a hurry, dot vas all.” 

AAHiether she would or no, Dorothy had to be still, 
for there w^as no chance to get anywhere near the 
singer, and for fully half an hour Herr Kosenfeld had 
to support her to keep the eager mob from trampling 
over her. At last they began to break away, and Dor- 
othy caught a glimpse of a sweet, girlish face, 
w^reathed about with pale gold hair, and a pair of deep, 
pansy-blue eyes, with the yearning look in their 
sparkling depths, such as only longing, great, heartfelt 
longing for some hope ungratified, could have lent 
them, and yet they said she was blind. 

She made her way straight up to the girlish creature. 


384 


and was just in the act of making her request that she 
come and sing for them on Wednesday night, when 
something in the girPs face struck her as being fa- 
miliar, and she took a closer glance and saw who the 
singer was. She was turning away with a feeling of 
deep disgust over her startling discovery, when the 
man who had stood beside the girl when she sang, 
turned and said: 

^^Come, Bethel, little one, we must be going. It will 
not do for you to remain so long in this cold air.^^ 

Dorothy heard the voice, but she would not believe 
until her own eyes told her the bitter truth, and in 
spite of the studied indifference she had shown him so 
long, a pang of jealousy, fierce, maddening jealousy, 
thrilled her through and through, and she made her 
way back to the carriage, with a prayer in her wicked 
heart that the sweet singer might drop dead before she 
reached her home. 

In Bethel, the Blind Nightingale of Italia, she had 
recognized Daisy Stafford, and in the man who at- 
tended her, the man that she (Dorothy Sinclair) had 
elected to call her brother — John Dumbarton. 


CHAPTER XLVll. 


THE PRINCESS OLOSKY. 

DURING the homeward drive Dorothy was silent 
and preoccupied. So this was the trip to Borneo — es- 
corting a blind singer through the streets of a great 
city, and accepting the donations made to her by any 
common man, woman, or child who had a penny to 
give. 

Who Daisy Stafford was and why she had been of so 
much imj)ortance to her father, Dorothy had not the 
remotest idea, but at any rate she was resolved that 
the designing creature should never enter the drawing 
room at ^^Glymont’’ with her permission, and so long 
as she held her own there as mistress, no one else 
would or should dare to invite her. Out of sound of the 
magic influence of that voice, Miss Stockton’s thoughts 
returned to her surroundings once more, and she asked 
Dorothy sweetly: 

^^Did you engage the singer according to your an- 
ticipations, my dear?” 

Dorothy started as though aroused from a dream, 
beg pardon?” 

^^Did you engage the singer?” repeated Miss Stock - 
ton. 

^^No,” replied Dorothy, absently, was disappointed 
in her, and I thought best not to say anything to her. 
She was a very ordinary looking person. Not at all 
what one would have expected to see, and her dress 
was something awful. The most gaudy affair of red 
silk, cheap red silk and flashing beads.” 

^^One does not expect to see a street singer gowned in 
purple and fine linen, my dear,” suggested ^fiss 
Stockton. 


386 


‘‘I am aware of that, Miss Stockton,’’ replied Doro- 
thy, hushing hotly under the elder lady’s mild re- 
proach; ‘ yet neither does one expect to see them 
dressed like a cannibal queen. I assure you the man 
who was with her looked savage enough to eat one 
alive.” 

Miss Stockton shuddered at her description of the 
two people, and wondered why the bare thought of 
them impressed her with such sadness. 

She relapsed into silence, having learned that it was 
absolutely impossible to talk with Dorothy upon any 
congenial subject, and during the homeward drive 
Herr Tvosenfeld and Dr. Merlebank had the conversa- 
tion entirely to themselves. 

Herr Itosenfeld had by some means or other learned 
that the little, old teacher was the possessor of a com- 
fortable bank account, the result of her own unaided ef- 
forts, and he was particularly anxious t-o make an im- 
pression upon her. The lofty ideas, the profound sub- 
jects with which he sprinkled his conversation were 
something wholly new to the designing little Doctor, 
who since the da}" of his entrance to Glymont had 
found nothing so interesting as a certain little volume 
he believed to be stored carefully away in the odd- 
looking old cabinet in the corner of his room. We will 
remember this little volume as “Gilbert On Poisons,” 
and the chapter which had been the one of all others 
for study, “The Most Powerful Opiate On Earth.” 

It was after ten when they reached “Glymont,” and 
to Dorothy’s infinite surprise the drawing-room was in 
a blaze of light and sounds of mingling voices issued 
from within, and among these voices she recognized 
that of Mr. DesAvald. 

When she entered she saw to her astonishment that 
Mr. Sinclair was dressed, in full dress suit, looking as 
happy as a king, with the smiling faces of Mr. Deswald 
and old Mr. Valwin before him. 

Cake and wine had been served, for the decanter 
and basket were still on the table, and the guilty 
woman felt a sickening dread that the shrewd old 
lawyer had been treated to some of Mr. Sinclair’s fa- 


387 


Yorite sherry. Had it been possible for him to drink 
enough of the liquid at one time to put him out of ex- 
istence, she would gladly have brought ever}" bottle of 
it from the well-stocked cellar, but the quantity that a 
gentleman would drink, while engaged in pleasant con- 
versation, would only be sufficient to make him a trifle 
sick, and arouse his suspicions. 

(Hasses again clinked when the Doctor and Herr 
I\osenfeld entered, and Mr. Sinclair's spirits rose to the 
highest pitch. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen came over Tuesday morning to 
spend the day with her chosen friend and bosom com- 
panion, and she could talk of nothing but the Princess 
Closky, whom she had met at an informal tea given by 
Ri‘ginald Duchene the day before. She had never be- 
fore seen a live princess, a genuine live princess, ami to 
hear her talk one would imagine that a princess was 
necessarily a creature of a different species, and not 
simply a flesh and blood mortal subject to the very 
same conditions as ourselves, and endowed with the 
same emotions of heart and brain that make or mar 
our own lives with their realization or disappointment, 
as the case may be. 

Dorothy felt herself immensely flattered as being 
the first woman who was to entertain this superior 
being, and she never tired of listening to Mrs. Van 
Kelpen extol her praises. They found interest in dis- 
cussing the way the princess held her fork or handled 
the after-dinner coffee spoons, and if we are to believe 
that being talked about makes one’s ears burn, the 
poor princess surely must have spent a miserable after- 
noon trying to get hers cool. There was also another 
guest at Mr. Duchene’s Connecticut Avenue mansion, a 
gifted young artist who six months ago was unknown 
to the world, poor and obscure, whom a single paint- 
ing had made famous. And that painting — “The 
Death Of Hope.” 

Old painters whose names had become household 
words would stand over the picture to praise the real- 
istic glow of the firelight on the men’s faces, or the 
hopeless expression in the eyes of the fair-haired youth, 
and more than one of them declared that it was ex- 


388 


perienoe, not merely a stroke of genius, that could in- 
fuse such life-like expression into the faces of his 
creations. 

The young artist had met with favor everywhere. 
Little tributes to his genius were to be found in the 
leading magazines, and sketches of his life, as fertile 
minded reporters could make up, appeared in the first 
newspapers, many of which were asking for photo- 
graphs to be reproduced in their columns, and com- 
mented upon by their readers as resembling — to some 
degree — the face of the youth in the painting. 

To all these flattering requests Carl Wilmerding 
would give but one answer, and that, he did not care 
to have his face made public property. He by no means 
desired so much attention, and as persons who care 
nothing for public notice are the ones upon which it 
is usually lavished, he became the lion of the season. 

Keginald Duchene treated him like a prince, and if 
he entertained hopes of making a match between the 
artist and Princess Closky, he kept the hopes wisely to 
himself and threw the two people together as much as 
possible. No member of her own royal family could 
have treated the fair Stephanie with more tender care 
and diplomatic grace, but Carl showed no symptoms of 
being in any wise affected with the grande passion. 
One false woman had broken his heart. He did not 
care to offer to such a sweet, high-born creature the 
shattered fragments of a ruined life. No. He 
would live out his blighted days without the tender 
dream which comes but once in life, and the memory 
of that fair, moonlight night on the bosom of the blue, 
rolling Atlantic, Vvdth the bright stars smiling down 
upon the happiest scene that ever had been under their 
watchful eyes, must be enough for him. He would 
look back upon that as the night for which he had 
lived, and perhaps when the last step in the roadway 
of earthly existence had been trod, some sweet angel 
would meet him on the shining sea of celestial light, 
and their united souls would sail on in an undisturbed 
dream of delight through eternal bliss and love. 

His idol had been broken. It might be replaced by 
another, but that would never be the same to him. He 


389 


would always know that it was only a substitute for 
what had been, and the thought would rob him of any 
joy in worshiping the new face, smiling upon him 
from the pedestal of the old. 

Reginald Duchene became his fast friend, and if he 
knew that the face dearest in all the world to him was 
the face which had wrought the saddest havoc in Carks 
life, he only showed more extreme kindness to him, and 
comrades they became, comrades to remain. 

“Bethel, the Blind Nightingale of Italia,^^ continued 
to hold her open air concerts at seven o’clock every 
evening, at the intersection of the two great thorough- 
fares of the Capitol City, and instead of the crowd de- 
creasing as time went on, they became denser each 
succeeding night, and the cable cars were compelled to 
stop until officers could disperse the mob. 

Tuesday night Mrs. Yan Kelpen sent a special mes- 
senger around to the homes of a dozen of her most se- 
lect friends, Mrs. James Sinclair included, with invi- 
tations to an impromptu entertainment to be held in 
her parlors promptly at eight o’clock. Blind Bethel 
was to be the chief attraction, though hbr strange at- 
tendant would not be permitted to enter the parlors. 
Mrs. Yan Kelpen had an idea that he Avas quite an or- 
dinary man, and she preferred to have the sweet 
singer alone. The invitations were written by her own 
hand, and the boy Avho deliA^ered them rode her Ara- 
bian pony to do so. 

Three of these dainty bits of cardboard, with their 
delicate tracery, found their way to the Duchene man- 
sion, addressed respectively to Mr. Reginald Duchene, 
Princess Marie Stephanie Closky, and Mr. Carl Wil- 
merding. In the left-hand corner of the one which 
Dorothy received was written in delicate pencil mark, 
“To meet Princess Closky.” 

Dorothy felt that it was simply a clever scheme of 
Mrs. Y an Kelpen’s to be the first to tender a reception 
to the royal lady, and in her heart she could have mur- 
dered her, but nevertheless she made a hurried toilet 
and ordered her carriage to be sent around at once. 

Suzanne did her complexion up to perfection, and 
she looked a perfect poem in the dainty creation of 


390 


gossamer-like silk of a pale pink shade, with billows on 
top of billows of rare old lace, combined with maiden 
blush roses wdth natural foliage. 

A bunch of the sweet-scented flowers nestled on her 
bosom, and a few of the delicate blossoms were twined 
among the fluffy brown waves of her hair. In justice 
to her taste we must admit that even Princess Closky 
could not possibly surpass her in loveliness, unless in- 
deed she were a seraphic being. 

There was barely time left to reach Mrs. Van Kel- 
pen’s residence when her preparations were complete, 
and she gave the order to the coachman to drive :is 
fast as possible to avoid danger. 

Eeginald Duchene was already there, and beside him 
stood a young man whom Dorothy did not at first rec- 
ognize, and so eager was she to catch a glimpse of the 
princess that she paid very little attention to any one, 
A tall, hand-painted screen stretched across one corner 
of the parlor indicated that Blind Bethel had already 
arrived, and Mrs. Van Kelpen was just emerging fcom 
behind the screen, when Mrs. Sinclair, like some beau 
tiful airy blossom, floated into the room. 

Reginald Duchene caught his breath in a maze of 
trembling astonishment when his eyes fell upon her. 
Surely no artist had ever created in his beauty-loving 
brain anv thing one-half so lovely as she. And she be- 
longed to him, heart and soul, and had promised one 
day to be his wife. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen greeted her with the most charm 
ing of feminine grace, and, laying her hand on her 
arm, glided down the room to present her to — Carl 
V\ ilmerding. 

The pallor of death crept over the young artivSt’s face 
as his eyes rested on the vision of loveliness, and he 
extended his hand to clasp for a moment the slender 
fingers held out to him by the woman wdio had one 
day stood beside him and vowed before Dod and all 
His holy angels to ^dove, honor, and obey, and, forsak 
ing all others, cling only unto him, so long as they both 
should live.^’ 

The room swam around him, and he was conscious 


4 


391 


of saying some words, meant to be complimentary to 
her, as Mrs. Van Kelpen introduced him, and then he 
turned away with the bitterness of death in I) is heart. 

Why is it that a woman so false, so utterly unworthy 
of a spark of such holy love, can awaken in men’s 
hearts the deepest, undying devotion that iiuman 
hearts can know, and a woman true, tender, and as 
faithful to truth, honor, and all that goes to make up 
true worth and goodness, may go through lif(i as lonely 
and uncared for as the lone pine, that plants its root 
on some rocky cliff and lifts its lone head to the sky 
through ages of shine and shadow? 

Dorothy had a vague feeling that the earth and sky 
were about to meet and she was to be cruslu^d out of 
existence in the awful crash. 

She had an indistinct remembrance of being told 
that Princess Closky was suffering with headache and 
had been obliged to decline Mrs. Van Kelpen's invita- 
tion, and she remembered that a beautiful girl in a 
plain white muslin dress had stood beside the piano 
and sung half a dozen airs, but beyond that the mu- 
sicale was a blank to her. She did not even hear Eegi- 
nald Duchene when he called her his beautiful queen, 
and declared that he must call her his own, whether 
Mr. Sinclair died or not. 

How could she remember anything when Carl, whom 
she had loved so fondly, was standing before her? 
Was it fate which had brought them together thus, or 
had some malicious creature planned this meeting to 
try their hearts? Neither of them could tell, and it 
would be hard to say who suffered most — the tender- 
hearted man or the false, deceitful woman. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


THE NIGHT OF THE BALL. 

WEDNESDAY morniug, the morning before Christ- 
mas day, and the morning before the great ball, 
dawned with a dull, leaden sky and a suspicion of snow 
in the biting winds as they flicked the dead leaves over 
the lawn at ^^GlymonC’ and whistled around the tall 
turrets of the old stone mansion. Dorothy, looking 
out upon the scene, wondered if the night would bring 
her the joy she anticipated; she had at least the satis- 
faction of knowing that Mrs. Van Kelpen had not been 
the first to entertain the Princess Closky. 

She had not slept all night, and her eyes looked 
heavy and haggard from her troubled unrest. 

She had not been able to put CarFs pale, sad face 
out of her mind for a single moment, and when she 
closed her eyes to try to sleep she seemed to see it, still 
and white, rise up from the cold waters of the lake. 
She knew that she had killed all the joy of his life, 
just as truly as though he were lying cold and dead, 
as she so long believed him to be. 

HuyleEs men were ringing the bell at the front door, 
laden with heavy hampers that were redolent with the 
odors of the daintiest luxuries that America can afford, 
and SmalFs wagons, loaded with potted palms and 
rare exotics for banking mantels and bay-windows, 
were stopping at the gates of ''GlymonP' as early as 
nine o’clock. 

But, in spite of the promise of such a grand ball as 
all these things indicated, Dorothy was unhappy. 
Everything had gone awry in her mind during the 
night, and she felt a strange premonition that there 


393 


would be something she would have cause to regret 
before the event was over. She could hear little Lil- 
lian prattling in the nursery, but the sound of her 
childish voice gave her no pleasure, as it was wont 
to do. 

Before noon Keginald Duchene’s man arrived with 
a bunch of snowy orchids for ^^Mrs. Sinclair,^’ and im- 
bedded in the white blossoms was a note from her 
lover. Anything was welcome that would divert her 
mind from the sad thoughts that were haunting her 
like a phophecy. Who is it has said: 

‘^Coming events cast their shadows before’’? 

Dorothy tore the note open and read: 

Deakest: I have been unable to sleep all night 
for thinking of you, and were it not for the fact that 
I know^ you will be engaged every moment to-day I 
should come myself, instead of sending these flowers 
by my man. 

have something important to say to 3"ou. It is 
this, Dorothy: I have come to the conclusion that I 
can not live longer without you, and I want you to be 
my Christmas gift. Will .you not go away with me 
to-morrow, love? I will take you to any spot on this 
earth you will designate, and I swear to you that you 
shall never regret it. You are too j^oung, too sweet 
and fair to waste your life on an old man like Mr. Sin- 
clair. Come, my beautiful Sea Nymph, to your Kobes- 
pierre, and let him make you happy. If you look 
favorably upon my proposal wear these flowers to- 
night, and I shall be ready to fly with you before 
another sun rises. Only come to me, and your will 
shall be my law, regardless of cost to myself. 

^ Amours, 

“Keginald.” 

Why did Reginald Duchene desire to take her away 
from her luxurious life? How could an honest man 
make such proposals to a married woman? Wait, 
dear reader, and let the last chapter of this strange 
story answer your eager question. 


394 


Reginald Duchene was a man honorable to the 
hearths core. 

Dorothy looked at the beautiful white flowers, so 
pure in their spotless lives, and the thoughts that fllled 
her were thoughts of a life wasted for the glittering- 
bauble of the world’s tinsel. Oh, how she longed for 
the soothing voice of the friend who had never for- 
saken her; the heart that had always been full of sym- 
pathy for her real or imaginary troubles! She thought 
of Miss Stockton, with her sweet face and gentle 
voice, but the erring creature would as soon have 
thought of going to some beautiful, cold, marble statue 
for sympathy as pouring her sin-stained story into the 
ears of that rigid puritan, whose code of honor was 
as high as Heaven and adherence to principle as im- 
movable as the rock of Gibraltar. 

Whether she intended to be so careless or not, the 
costly orchids lay on her lap until their pretty petals 
were curled and brown and unfit to wear at all, and, 
instead of remembering that a single vase of pure 
water would have saved them, she thought only that 
they were like her own blighted life, cut off in the 
prime of her youth ; and could it not be said also of that 
life that a single resolve to be what God would have 
her be, pure in heart, would have made all things well? 

Oh, Dorothy, pause; even now it is not too late. Turn 
back and retrace the path of your life and undo the 
wrong you have done, and All up the day with good 
work. 

Alas, the Guardian Angel has turned his back upon 
that hopeless wreck. 

She tosses the wilted flowers into the grate, and, 
throwing her hair back from her brow, looks at the fair 
face reflected in the mirror, and laughs at her own 
foolish forebodings. 

What has she, the wife of a millionaire, to fear? 

Ah, did she but know that she had herself to fear — 
only herself! 

The dreary winter day drags through at last, and 
it is with a sigh of relief that the ^^mistress of ^Gly- 


395 


mont’ ” turns away from the window and rings for her 
maid. 

‘‘Bring me a cup of chocolate, Suzanne; a cup of 
chocolate and some rolls, she says, perching her slip- 
pered foot upon the fender. How long and fantastic 
the shadows look as they dance over the wall — like 
mocking fiends in their careering over the fiowered 
paper. 

The room has a weird appearance, as though it had 
been robbed of its most ornamental furniture. Never 
has she known the firelight to look so strange. 

“Hurry and bring lights, Suzanne,’’ she says, as the 
maid deposits the tray of dainties before her. “I am 
nervous to-night, and the darkness is oppressive.” 

She partakes but lightly of the steaming chocolate 
and delicious rolls that no one can make so good as old 
Becky. Suzanne brings out the cloud-like tulle dress 
that looks like a mist of the morning over its under- 
dress of shimmering silk, and the snowy valley-lilies 
that sprinkle it here and there look as if they had but 
just dropped from Nature’s hand. Dorothy does not 
know why such a thing should suggest itself to her 
mind, but she thinks the dress would make a lovely 
shroud, and while Suzanne is arranging her hair she 
has to turn the ruby set of Keginald Duchene’s ring 
inside her hand to keep the glaring hashes from the 
stone out of her eyes. 

She is going to be a vision in white to-night, and as 
Suzanne binds the pearls in her hair she tells Madame 
that her face is almost as white as her dress. 

“You may put on a little rouge,” she replies, and 
the maid hastens to bring it, lest Madame should 
change her mind. Dorothy stands before the mirror 
and takes a view of herself from the top of her head 
to the soles of her feet. 

“I look like a bride to-night,” she says, and Suzanne, 
with an approving smile, replies: 

“Om, Madame.’’ 

Mr. Sinclair is already in the drawing-room when 
she enters, and if he does not hug her on the spot it is 


396 


not because he does not think her the most beautiful 
creature his eyes ever rested upon. 

fear the young men will envy me my treasure to- 
night/’ he says as she takes her stand beside him on 
the velvet-carpeted dias. 

Dorothy turned her eyes toward the window for a 
moment, and, whether it was from the heat of the 
room, the odor of the flowers, or her own weakness, 
the next moment she was lying at Mr. Sinclair’s feet, 
and the beautiful fillet of pearls that bound her hair 
w^as broken in twain, and the costly jewels scattered 
over the floor. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


A DISAPPOINTED HOSTESS. 

MR. SINCLAIR was frightened almost out of his 
wits when he saw Dorothy fall at his feet, and he ran 
out in search of her maid like one demented. 

By the time Suzanne reached her with eau de cologne 
and smelling-salts, she was sitting up on the floor with 
her hand to her head, surveying the broken fillet and 
scattered pearls. 

To Mr. Sinclair’s inquiries she replied that she was 
quite recovered now, and had really been very foolish 
to faint at all. Of course, her hair had to be done over 
and flowers substituted for the broken jewels, but it 
was all done in a short length of time, and by the time 
the guests began to arrive she was quite herself again. 

In the confusion that followed Dorothy’s faint every 
one had forgotten that the guests were pouring into 
the ballroom, and the orchestra had not yet arrived. 

Dorothy was in a perfect tumult of excitement over 
this disappointing fact. Fully an hour had gone by, 
and still they had not come; the drawing-room was 
filled almost to suffocation, and in spite of the bitter 
blast that blew^ outside the windows had to be raised 
to get a breath. 

Reginald Duchene arrived with the Princess Closky, 
and Dorothy w^as astonished that she w^as dressed in 
a plain white silk, with scarcely any ornaments. 

People were beginning to seat themselves in little 
groups around the room, and Mr. Deswald bent his 
eyes furtively toward the door. People naturally 
thought he was watching for the musicians, and some 
one suggested that Herr Rosenfeld might give them a 
selection until the belated orchestra put in an appear- 


398 


an(*o. The professor acquiesced, and when he seated 
himself at the piano every one was surprised to see 
Princess Closky take her stand at his elbow. 

Mrs. Van Kelpen, in her ^^symphony in gray,’’ was 
not present, and Dorothy felt a sense of triumph over 
her absence. Selection after selection of the profess- 
or’s own composition was rendered, and the princess 
listened in rapture. Such grand music she had never 
heard, and her artist soul swelled with delight at the 
melodious strains. 

Among the select assemblage w^e . recognize our 
friend, Mr. Valwin, and his wife; Elia Chelini, and Keg- 
inald Duchene, and though there may be many others 
of our acquaintance, they are scattered about among 
the hundred guests until one would scarcely recognize 
one’s self. 

Some one suggested that Dorothy request Princess 
Closk}^ to sing, and as the hostess made her way to the 
piano with the clouds of billowy tulle sweeping after 
her Mr. Deswald turned his head away and smiled, and 
old Mr. Valwin stroked his whiskers caressingly. 

Every e^^e was turned upon the singer as her voice, 
sweet, clear, and distinct, rang out with the force and 
beauty of a clarion call. 

Not even a single whisper in that entranced au- 
dience, when suddenly, like a bomb shell exploded in 
their midst, a pistol shot, another, and another fired 
in the room caused every woman to scream and strong- 
men to shudder. 

On the floor at the professor’s feet the princess was 
lying, still and white. Mr. Deswald rushed to her 
side, and, bending over her, saw that she was unhurt. 

Dorothy thought he acted very strange to remain 
kneeling over her so long, but she had not time to go 
to the fallen lady, from whose face an invisible mask 
had fallen, and she saw that Princess Closky and Blind 
Bethel were one and the same, and while her aston- 
ished eyes were looking on another great trans- 
formation was taking place, the drawing-room door 
swung open, and a cofihn, old, rusty, and apparently 


399 


containing some poor dead body, was thrust into the 
room. 

Old Mr. Valwiu had broken into an amused laugh, 
and those who turned to look at him saw that his gray 
whiskers were all awry, and his wife was tugging to 
get her own false hair in its place. 

Dorothy looked heli^lessly around at the blank faces 
staring at her on all sides, and the expression on her 
own face was one of horrified amazement. 

In the midst of it all, little Lillian came dancing in 
and rushed straight into the arms of Keginald Du- 
chene. Those who were in no way connected with the 
unprecedented entertainment took their leave without 
so much as a word of good-night to their hostess, and 
those who were connected with the mad work re- 
mained to see it to the end. Herr Eosenfeld was the 
only Iverson present Avho could command his voice, 
and when he rose from the piano he said: 

“Mine Cott, mine Cott, vill somepod}^ please tell me 
if dis mean dat ve are at a Leatre an’ dis is a part of der 
tragedy?” 

No one replied to him, and Mr. Deswald, still bend- 
ing over the Princess Closky, was asking softly: 

“Don’t you know me, dear; don’t you know me, your 
old friend, Mr. Deswald ?” 

“The very idea of the old fool talking to Her High- 
ness in that manner,” said Dorothy to one of her 
friends. 

But the friend was quite as much astonished as Dor- 
othy was when Princess Closky threw her arms around 
the lawyer’s neck and cried out: 

“Yes, I know you. Oh, thank God, thank God; it 
was only a dream, after all!” 


CHAPTER L 


CONCLUSION— THE END OF THE SKEIN. 

BP]FOKE explaining the events chronicled in the 
last chapter it will be necessary to take our readers 
back to a time twenty years before our story opens and 
introduce them to a band of four men, who have styled 
themselves the Society of the Big Four.’’ They are all 
men of middle age, heavy build, and gifted with a little 
more than the usual amount of intelligence. First, we 
will take Dr. Charles Y. Garrison, handsome, debonair, 
and unmarried. His chief characteristic is the won- 
derful will-power he exerts over his comrades, and 
taken altogether he is a man to be trusted, and always 
commanding the respect of his comrades. Next in or- 
der comes Dr. MeiTebank, an old chum and college 
mate of Dr. Garrison, the two having graduated from 
the same medical college. Dr. Merlebank is a short, 
fat, chuffy sort of fellow, more noted for his cunning 
than for any particular claim to skill in his profession, 
and never allowing an opportunity to go by for turn- 
ing an ^dionest penny,” or a dishonest one either, for 
that matter. His love for gold amounts to a 
mania. Money is his God and he worships none other. 
Next comes William Stuyvesant, a man with no trade 
or profession, eking out a bare existence, after a hard, 
hand-to-mouth sort of struggle for his daily bread, and 
possessing no particular fault or virtue by which he 
might be designated. Last, but not least, comes Stan- 
ley Von Floville, a lazy, ease-loving fellow, whose chief 
desire is to be '^somebody” without having to exert 
himself to accomplish his purpose, and whom the other 
three have nicked-named 'The Baron,” on account of 
his high notions. The four men met one night back in 


401 


the early ''seventies’' and formed a plan to go to Aus- 
tralia to make their fortunes in the gold mines, signing 
a contract to divide equally any gain which came their 
way. All the men except Dr. Garrison were married, 
living with their families in Leicester, England. Dr. 
Garrison was engaged to a young daughter of the cler- 
gyman, who was opposed to the alliance, and when 
the time came for them to sail for the gold country, the 
young girl was persuaded to go with them. The elope- 
ment was planned for midnight, and William Stuyve- 
sant was to act as best man. Everything had been 
managed smoothly, but when the runaway couple 
were a mile from the rectory they were overtaken by 
the young lady’s father. He declared she must return 
with him, but she clung to her lover, and in the strug 
gle that followed. Dr. Garrison drew a pistol for the 
purpose of frightening the old man, and with no in- 
tention of shooting, but. by some untoward event, 
w'holly unintentional on his part, a shot was fired and 
the old rector was instantly killed. Believing her lover 
guilty of her father’s murder, the .young lady refused 
to marry him, but for the sake of her love swore that 
she would never tell the cause of the old man’s death. 
Shortly afterward she died. William Stuyvesant was 
the only other witness, and as he would not betray his 
friend, they escaped the country in safety. The gold 
fields of Australia proved a delusion, and the "Society 
of the Big Four” returned to England. Dr. Merlebank’s 
wife died in giving birth to their daughter, Dorothy, 
and he married six months later Mrs. Adelle May 
Flaxham, a widow with one child, who had formerly 
been an actress in one of the smaller theatres in Lon- 
don. The two children were the same age, and much 
alike in appearance, and Mrs. Flaxham, w^ho before her 
marriage to him was paid by the Doctor twenty dol- 
lars per month to take care of the frail little creature, 
soon learned to depend upon this money as her chief 
support. The Doctor’s little daughter died, and in- 
stead of telling the truth, knowing the money would 
cease if she did, the funeral was announced as that of 


14 


402 


her own baby, and little Grace was brought up as the 
Doctor’s daughter, when in reality his child had died 
at three months of age. This story Mrs. Flaxham 
never told except in the diary which Mr. Deswald had 
conliscated the night after her funeral. The Society of 
the Big Four wandered over the civilized world search- 
ing for a chance to make a fortune, and it is upon this 
quest we find Dr. Merlebank in Washington at the 
time of our story. He learns that Marguerite Court- 
ney is the heiress of Mr. Sinclair, and, realizing that 
he might get possession of the old man’s gold by mar- 
rying the young girl, he immediately commands his 
wife to assume the name of Miss Flaxham, and under 
guise of a trained nurse help him to put the old man 
out of the way, when he will marry Marguerite, get her 
money, and afterward disjmse of her in the first way 
that suggests itself. Learning that his suit will be 
liopeless as lofig as Jack Dumbarton holds her affec- 
tion, he sets about a plan to calumniate the young 
man his sweetheart, and so forges the letters that 
we have already read. Finding that the old man’s 
will has not been signed and the fortune will go to 
Everett Sinclair in case of his dying intestate, he 
ceased giving the poison which was to put the old man 
out of the way. We now understand why the old 
man’s illness was so intermittent. After he had sue-' 
ceeded in breaking the engagement between Jack and 
Marguerite he learned that Mr. Sinclair had betrothed 
her to his accomplice, Baron Von Floville; he admin- 
isters a drug known as the Most Powerful Opiate on 
Earth, which produces a deep, death-like sleep, and 
kept her under the infiuence of it for three days. Her 
body was interred in the vault and taken out imme- 
diately after dark, and the business which called him 
away that night was to take her to the ^'Home Sani- 
tarium,^’ a place he hired for the purpose, and keep her 
there until such a time as he could see his wa}^ clear to 
the fortune. In order to keep her there he must have 
some influence that would hold her a captive, so he 
immediately telegraphs for Dr. Garrison, who was now 
touring the States as a professor of hypnotism. It was 


403 


an easy matter to keep the girl under his power while 
she was still weak from the fever, and the two old peo 
pie, Mrs. Stafford and Mr. Hilburn, were the Doctor^s 
subjects, brought there for the purpose of deceiving 
any stranger who might chance to come. 

Marguerite was still at “Glymont” when Von Flo- 
ville left for Germany, and the Baron, who was really 
in love with her, meant to make a legal marriage, and 
in order to do this he must get rid of his wife. The 
trunk which had been closed by William Stuyvesant 
at the custom house in New York contained her dead 
body; he had chloroformed her on board just before 
reaching the New York harbor, and the illiterate old 
man who went on the dray to Sadler’s Farm was no 
less a person than our honored old friend, Mr. Valwin, 
who investigated the matter, and as soon as the dray- 
man was out of sight Mr. Deswald was informed of his 
discovery, and the two men at once set about the Avork 
of bringing the villains to justice. We knoAV what a 
task it proved and how many plans had to be resorted 
to to get the evidence they wanted. The mysterious 
man who haunted Dorothy’s life was no one but her 
husband, John Dumbarton, a man enough like our 
young friend Jack to be taken for his twin brotlier, but 
in reality no kin to him. Tliey had married secretly 
in Paris three years before, and little Lillian was their 
child. The beautiful woman who had stepped aboard 
the yacht upon which the Baron was cruising with his 
friends was simply Dorothy Dumbarton, and John 
Dumbarton’s Avife. Of this marriage Dr. Merlebank 
Avas in ignorance or he would neA^er have allowed Doro- 
thy to come betAveen himself and the Sinclair fortune. 
The pai)er Jack Dumbarton gathered up from the 
grate Avas Dorothy’s marriage certificate, and the 
strange paper John Dumbarton had placed be- 
fore Carl’s astonished eyes in the tumble-down cabin 
Avas a copy of it. When the Princess Closky arose at 
the piano and began singing to the professor’s accom- 
paniment every one recognized the voice of Bethel, 
the Blind Nightingale of Italia, and when the inAusible 
mask dropped from her face Daisy Stafford stood be- 


404 

fore the astonished audience, who had known her brief- 
ly before, and as the ringing report of the pistol-shot 
rang through the drawing-room she dropped to the 
floor as though it had struck her dead, and Mr. Des- 
wald, bending over her, said gently: , 

^^Don’t you know me, Margie?’^ 

The dazed expression was gone from her eyes in an 
instant, the awful hypnotic spell was broken, and she 
threw her arms around the old lawyer’s neck and cried: 

“Oh, thank God, thank God; it teas only a dream, 
after all! Grandfather, Mr. Deswald, Jack! Thank 
God! Thank God!’’ 

The chief executive looked on at the last act in his 
defeat with the fires of hell raging in his breast. 

The drawing-room looked like a dressing-room of a 
theatre by the time the masks had all dropped to the 
floor. Mr. Yalwin’s gray whiskers and wig were lying- 
on the carpet at Jack Dumbarton’s feet. Princess 
Closky’s raven locks were on the floor beside the piano, 
at Marguerite’s side, and standing in the self-same 
tracks of Reginald Duchene stood John Dumbarton, 
the husband of Dorothy. 

Little Mrs. Yalwin turned out to be a very prominent 
detective of Supt. Byrne’s staff, and with a deft move- 
ment of her hand Herr Rosenfeld stood revealed as 
Baron Yon Floville. 

Elia Chelini stood stock still, glad that no mask 
could be torn from her face, but she was doomed to a 
far greater shock. In the midst of all the confusion a 
rusty metallic coffin Avas thrust into the door, and as 
Mr. DesAvald Avas master of ceremonies for the eA^ening, 
he stepped forAvard, and, calling upon all present to 
take a look at a very ghastly sight, he said: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, behold under that glass 
breast-plate the body of Elia Chelini Sinclair.” 

“It’s a lie!” shouted Elia Chelini. “You speak false- 
ly. I alone have the right to that name.” 

“Your proofs, Madame,” said Mr. Deswald calmly. 

“Are here,” replied the woman, drawing a roll of 
papers from her bosom and exhibiting a marriage cer- 
tificate, printed on heavy linen paper. Mr. Deswald 


405 


took the paper frpni her hands and read the words that 
were printed upon it with the names, “Elia Chelini to 
James Sinclair, Genoa, Italy, June 23, 1884/’ 

The very date upon which Mr. Sinclair was mar- 
ried, but, with a smile on his face as full of triumph 
as it is possible for a smile to be, he said : 

“My friends, behold this paper,” holding it up to the 
light. “This woman was married to Mr. Sinclair in 
June, 1884; the paper she claims was signed on the day 
of her marriage. I call upon you all to witness that it 
is a forgery, as these figures indicate.” 

He pointed to the paper, and in broad water-line 
across its center all saw the figures which marked the 
date of its manufacture, 1886, two years after the date 
of its signature. 

While all eyes were turned to the light John Dum- 
barton crossed the fioor to Dorothy, who was standing 
mute, white, and horrified. 

“Can you not come back to your husband now, Doro- 
thy?” he asked, gently. 

“No,” she cried, “a thousand times no! I will never 
live with such a deceitful monster.” 

“Not even for our baby’s sake?” he questioned. 

“No, not even for her sake,” she cried, and the next 
moment she was gone from the room. 

Pandemonium reigned for the space of five minutes, 
and at the end of that time the guests were treated 
to another surprise. Officers of the law entered the 
drawing-room clanking heavy iron hand cuffs, and 
brandished pistols over the heads of Stanley Von Flo- 
ville and Jeremiah Merlebank, both of whom they ar- 
rested on the spot — Von Floville for the murder of his 
wife, and Merlebank for the attempted murder of 
James Sinclair, the abduction of his granddaughter, 
and for the murder of his own wife, Adelle Flaxham 
[Merlebank, who had died as the result of poison placed 
in a bottle of sherry, which she unconsciously took, 
believing the wine to be a bottle she had purchased 
and placed on the table in Mr. Sinclair’s room for his 
use. 

When Dorothy saw that everything was lost she ran 


up to her room, locked the door on the inside, and, 
taking a last look at herself in the cheval glass, she 
raised the ring that Reginald Duchene had given her 
to her lips, pressed a kiss upon the glowing stone, 
brought her teeth down upon it with all her strength, 
and without one moments Avarning dropped to the 
floor, dead, by a single drop of prussic acid. 

Surely no Christmas had ever dawned upon such a 
scene as that Avhich it dawned upon at ^^Glymont.’’ 

The poor, erring woman was laid to rest beside her 
mother in the Sinclair vault. Baron Von Floville, as 
we have known him, was executed in the electric chair 
for the murder of his wife, and Elia Chelini, who was 
his dead wife^s sister, went back to Paris to take care 
of his three small children. Dr. Merlebank went to 
Sing Sing for life. Dr. Garrison, who had committed 
no crime, is still in Washington and a warm friend of 
Mr. Sinclair’s. 

Jack Dumbarton and Marguerite Courtney were 
married early in the New Year, and one year later a 
wee little cherub, who is called Herbert Deswald Dum- 
barton, was christened at ^^Glymont,’^ and Mrs. James 
Sinclair, avIio was formerly Miss Alice Stockton, hug- 
ging him up to her breast, murmurs that he is the 
dearest little creature in all the wide world, and Mar- 
guerite, Avho is the happiest mother in the world, goes 
lovingly up to her and, laying a fair hand on her soft, 
Avhite curls, says: 

^ J am afraid you will spoil baby with overmuch loA^e, 
my darling little mother.’^ 

And Mr. DesAvald, who has acted as godfather, de- 
clares ^That the switches are growing for the rascal 
now.’’ 

Mrs. Sinclair adopted little Lillian, and is always 
trying to teach her some sweet lesson of beautiful 
truth, and she has told Marguerite that the little one 
shall never know the sad story of her mother’s life. 

Old Becky and Peter still hold their positions at 
''Glymont,” though they are both very feeble. Becky 
declares ''she will be content to die, now that she has 
seen sweet little Miss Margie once more,” and old 


407 


Peter shakes his head wisely and says he ^^always 
knowed Marse J ack was all right.” 

Marguerite often laughs now at the gay times she 
had, splashing about in the lake at the ^‘Home Sani- 
tarium,” a suggestion which Dr. Merlebank had put in 
her mind while she was hypnotized, and as it appeared 
to be pleasant to her. Dr. Garrison fostered the 
thought until it became a reality in her mind, when 
really there was not a drop of water anywhere near 
the ‘‘Home Sanitarium,” except the well water. 

Mr. Stacy Calhoun was no less a person than Mr. 
Deswald, and, long years after, when talking of the 
ball that had turned out so disastrously for some, so 
happily for others, confided to Mr. Sinclair that he had 
sent a notice to the musicians that their services would 
not be needed that night at “Glymont,” and that was 
why the orchestra had been absent from the ball. 

FINIS. 


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